What Dreams Are For
by kidneythieves
Summary: Set after Season 2 finale. Sherlock realizes that John's life is in ruins after his suicide. He decides to sneak into 221 B Baker Street at night and discovers that John has been seeing Sherlock often- in his dreams. Slash/ sexually graphic.
1. What Dreams Are For

**Reader Beware: contains sexy-goodness that might not appeal to ones pallet. also- writer discretion on updates. i do this as an outlet- when i have time (which is rare), i write. i will try to update as timely as possible, but alas that is sometimes impossible. **

**please enjoy my first slash of Sherlock- this pair was much too tempting to ignore ^_- and feel free to comment! thank u! **

**~kidneythieves**

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_******What Dreams Are For**_

He was stone cold drunk. Literally. Dr. John Watson sat, immobile, in his normal rest chair, unconscious. Sherlock had snuck back inside earlier to discover John in this precarious state. Again. This was the third night in a row that the good Doctor had chosen the escapism of alcohol. Though from the state of things, Sherlock really couldn't blame him. Apparently John quit his job at the clinic, depleted what was left of his money in savings, and now couldn't sell the infamous 221 B Baker street apartment to the Central Bank of England even if he tried.

Sherlock had left him in a bit of a bind. Yet as the days progressed into weeks, he was realizing that his decision to fool everyone, including John, might have been a mistake.

His light blue eyes cut across the empty remains of the apartment. It was bleak and sad. Unfamiliar to the home he had left it four weeks ago. But as he continued to look around the room, he couldn't help but return to the figure in the armchair, whom also looked bleak and… sad. Sherlock felt a small tingle of guilt constrict his gut. He swallowed, attempting to alleviate the unsettling feeling. Problem was that just by looking at the depressed form of his friend, made the constricting bind twist even more painfully.

John was his best, and only friend. Sherlock had left nothing for him. Nothing but a ruined private eye practice, an empty apartment and a shadow memory of what they had not so long ago.

John stirred slightly in his chair, disturbing the glass of amber liquor perched on the arm rest. It slipped off and with horror- he watched the decent of the glass onto the hardwood floor. He was too far back to stop it. Nothing would prevent the tumultuous crash of the glass. Gaze locked onto John, he listened to the shatter. He waited. Breath held.

But John remained immobile. Stone-cold drunk and asleep.

Sherlock titled his head curiously. How much had John been drinking? Enough to knock out his short stature and probably several large Russian brawlers from the amount of empty whiskey and rum bottles lying about. Sherlock sighed. John was too emotional for his own good. Drinking like this didn't do anything but prolong his torment. One he seemed keen on having. Why, Sherlock could only guess. Obviously, they were friends. But how long did one grieve for a friend? It had been a month. Move on.

He paused, eyes narrowing onto John's face. He seemed older, more worn and weary. Too much for a man his age. His hair was rumpled and chin unshaved. His clothes were three days old dirty. And the only thing in the room that was relatively new was the amount of Jack Daniel's bottles. At least John seemed physically fit enough to see himself down to the market at the end of the block.

John stirred again, this time in a blatant shiver, pushing his frame deeper into the light cloth of the chair. Sherlock noted the fire had died out hours ago, leaving John in a rather cold room. Luckily he had all that booze in his system to keep him unconscious.

Securing his own jacket around his tall body, Sherlock moved forward and with skill and delicate ease, pulled John out of the chair. When John didn't immediately wake from the sudden movement, Sherlock continued, wrapping his arm around John's side and holding his body close as he walked them to his old bedroom, since John's was upstairs. It was the only logical place, Sherlock assured himself, as he opened the door to his bedroom and saw that since his death, nothing in his room had been touched or even taken. Surprised, he hesitated a moment before entering.

He liked his room. He liked his bed even more. And the past month he'd been moving through motels like some phantom and now, as he stared at his soft cushioned bed, envy filled him. He would give anything to sleep securely in his own home and his own bed. Granted he didn't sleep much. But when he did… comfort was his king sized bed. Alas, he would let John have the privilege, though he might not remember enjoying it as much Sherlock once had.

Slowly, he lowered John's dead weight onto the sheets. He slid his hand beneath his neck, lowering his head into the pillows. John's eyes shifted and opened.

Unable to think, move or even speak, Sherlock stared dumbfounded down at his friend.

John's gaze was unfocused and glazed. Sherlock instantly realized he was still drunk.

"Sherlock…?" John asked slowly. "Come to tuck me in?"

Sherlock pondered a response. Should he reply? Maybe John thought he was dreaming? And would it matter what he told him? Because from the smell of John's clothes and breath, Sherlock had a feeling that this midnight encounter wouldn't be recalled.

"Yes…" Sherlock said uncertainly at first. "Just to tuck you in."

John smiled foolishly, letting his head drop into the pillows like a child. "That's nice…"

"Yes, it is." Sherlock replied placidly.

John yawned, his eyes barely open now as he spoke. "I have this dream a lot you know."

Sherlock, about to leave, hesitated. "What dream?"

"This one. The one where you're still alive…"

Sherlock's heart gave a strange lurch.

"You're alive…" John continued to babble. "And you come home…"

"Yes, well this is another dream. You're just dreaming, John."

John snorted into his pillow. Sherlock had never seen John so happy. The alcohol. It was effecting his inhibitions. Sherlock arched a curious eyebrow. John rarely let down his guard, unless he chose to disclose it. Now, seeing him so vulnerable, so… odd, made Sherlock pause.

"It's my favorite dream." John wrapped his arms around the pillow, smiling like an idiot.

Okay, he'd seen enough. He made his way to leave when John's voice stilled him.

"Aren't you going to kiss me good night?"

Sherlock froze. He spun on his heel slowly to face the blithering drunk on his bed. "A what?" Sherlock couldn't keep the tone of surprise from his voice.

John sighed, inhaling deeply the pillow he laid on. He turned onto his back and opened his eyes to look up at him. Sherlock nearly took a step back, afraid that John would realize this was not a dream but very much real.

"Kiss me before you leave me again, Sherlock."

He heard the hint of sadness in John's voice. It was hard and painful. His heart turned again. Yet his stomach gave a strange flutter too. It was the same type of excited flutter he would feel whenever he got his hands on a real puzzle of a case.

"It's my dream…" John said. "I won't let you go… I can't…"

Sherlock swallowed. The pain in his voice was gut-wrenching. And it kept getting worse. If Sherlock could do anything in his power to make John feel better- anything to stop his pain, he would do it for him. But a kiss? Could he really "kiss" this problem and make it all go away for his dear friend. Apparently in John's dreams, he had that ability.

His face flushed strangely. He never experienced embarrassment before. This was a first for him. He never showed affection for this reason. He avoided relationships because of the intimacy they required. He wasn't…good with things like love and kisses. He never kissed anyone in his life, except maybe his mother. Yet he never saw the appeal of it. Or someone for whom he wanted to kiss either.

This would be a first for him in a lot of things, he realized as he bent over John's body and kissed him coldly on the forehead, before quickly withdrawing. All of a sudden John let out a chuckle. Sherlock shifted on his feet before straightening indignantly.

"What?" he demanded.

John shook his head on the pillow, rolling dazedly. "A kiss, Sherlock…"

"That was a kiss. An efficient one in my opinion."

John rubbed his temple. "God, you're even annoying in my dreams."

"Fine, you require a kiss—I shall give you one that will make all others pale in comparison."

"I doubt it…"

Sherlock clenched his jaw as he stepped forward determinedly and placed his lips directly over John's mouth. It was more a mashing of lips, than a kiss. But seeing as how Sherlock never gave anyone a kiss before, and John had irritated him, well- this was the best he could do.

All of a sudden, John's hand wrapped around his neck, sending a warm shiver up his spine. John pulled back from his lips slightly, then with careful delicacy, parted his lips and kissed Sherlock. It was a slow. Soft, not hard and cold like the one Sherlock had attempted at. It was warm, so warm… just like John's hand, which now began to message the back of his neck, his fingers moving through his hair. Sherlock felt his heart beat erratically in his chest. His pulse leapt madly in his veins. His stomach churned… all these magnificent physical sensations erupted within him.

He marveled at his own body for a moment, before he felt something else just as incredible. The building, the anticipation for something else—something more, swelled into a desire which spread like fire to his loins. His cock stirred restlessly, mystifying Sherlock completely.

So he let his lips take part in this experiment with John, as they were parted easily and John's tongue entered his mouth. It was then, Sherlock felt the tension spike into a full erection. A hard, untamable flare of urgency between his legs. He gasped, unable to control himself.

John pulled back then, eyes closed dreamily. "Thank you, Sherlock…" He began slipping back into his sedate position on the bed. "Good night."

Sherlock stared down at him, dumbfounded.

"Is that all?" he asked.

John nodded, drifting off into sleep.

He glanced down at the bulge in his slacks. It was heavy and uncomfortable. His pulse continued to beat, his heart pound, and John was finished with him? No. Sherlock wasn't done, so neither was John.

"This might be a different dream John." He heard himself say huskily.

John stirred, eyes opening to stare sleepily up at him.

Sherlock stripped off his coat. John's eyes widened then. The shock of what he was witnessing sobered him up. "Sherlock… what are you doing?"

"Playing a part in your dream." He unbuttoned his black suit shirt. "Isn't that what you want, John?"

"We never get this far…" he sat up slowly, almost disoriented.

"But you've wanted us to?"

John nodded, watching transfixed as Sherlock pulled at his belt buckle and unsnapped his slacks.

"Why haven't you taken this dream further than?" Sherlock asked. "I would have… assuming you feel the same as me right now."

"It didn't seem right." John's reply was breathless. Sherlock noticed then that John was flushed now. His eyes riveted to every move Sherlock made as he unclothed himself, revealing the naked flesh below.

Sherlock slipped his slacks off his ankles, completely nude and stepping towards the bed. His skin was warm with excitement and… fear. He'd never done this. Never kissed anyone before tonight. But strangely, it didn't matter. He was with John. He was safe. John wouldn't hurt him. John was his friend.

"Why wouldn't it be right?" Sherlock asked.

John gazed up at him, his dark brown eyes almost pleading to him. "Because you're dead. And why wish for something I can never have?"

Sherlock realized then what the consequences might be should he proceed with his intent. If he were to lie down with John, touch him, let him be kissed again… it might harm his friend even more. Sherlock was dead in his heart and his mind. And men weren't suppose to rise back from the grave. Except, Sherlock refused to give up these tremendous feelings roaring inside him. It was the first time in his life he wanted to truly touch and be touched by someone. He wouldn't give it up. Not now. Not when it was within his grasp.

"That's what dreams are for John," Sherlock whispered as he kneeled down onto the edge of the bed. "To want the things we can't have in life."

John sighed, a passing moment of torment flickering across his handsome features.

Sherlock feared John would rebel, and banish him from the bedroom and this make-believe dream. All of a sudden John slowly moved forward and reached up to him. John did something Sherlock did not expect. He grabbed him suddenly by his cock. Sherlock's erection instantly pulsed with a thundering need that nearly drove him to his knees.

John seemed pleased by this reaction and pulled again, this time harder, forcing Sherlock to move to him. Sherlock's stomach quivered anxiously as John pushed him down on the bed on his back, his throbbing erection still firmly in his control.

He looked down on him with those tender, understanding eyes and Sherlock felt his heart give. "I've never done anything like this…"

John smiled softly. "I know."

"Where do we start?"

John's hand released his cock and rubbed the base, pushing on the flesh that ached for more. Demanded more. Sherlock heard a strangled sigh escape his throat.

"We start here, love." John's lips pressed into Sherlock's mouth and with amazing ease opened his mouth with his tongue and began the slow torment of a kiss.

Incredible, was the only word floating in Sherlock's brain. John was an amazing kisser. Maybe he only assumed that because the lack of his own experience. Yet this… this was something else. Aside from the chemical reaction in his body and brain at this precise moment, he felt something deeper inside him reach out for John. Maybe his heart. Maybe his soul. All Sherlock knew was that he never felt like this before.

Now it was time to experience it.

Without hesitation, Sherlock grasped the back of John's head, fingers running through his soft blond hair. He opened his mouth wider and pushed John closer. Within seconds, their kiss seemed to explode. John no longer was easy and delicate. But wild, carnal. Sherlock liked this much more and so did his body. He dug his finger eagerly into John, feeling his back arch from the bed and his legs tense at the marvelous sensations shooting down to his cock.

Quickly, and without thinking, he pulled John on top of him and let their bodies met. Except John still wore his horrible sweater shirt and pants, this however did stop Sherlock from madly touching him. He spread his legs to accommodate John's body, instinctively thrusting his pelvis forward into him, his body humming with extraordinary need.

He heard John let out a small moan. Sherlock, feeling bold, pushed his erection yet again into John. It felt wonderful. And he wanted more. He wanted to feel John's naked body pressed against his. It seemed almost critical that this occur. John must have felt the same thing, for he pried his lips away from their torrid, open mouthed kisses.

John's eyes were bright with desire. "Sherlock…" he said in a sighing moan. Sherlock arched again, unable to stop himself. Just hearing John whimper out his name like that was so… sexy. He wanted more.

"Ah-Sherlock!" John cried out, clenching his fingers into the bed sheet. "Don't you think we're going a little fast…?"

Sherlock studied the man above him. John was breathless. His heart pounded. His skin temperature was elevated and his pupils were dilated. John was aroused and from the bulge pressing into Sherlock's own erection, he could only conclude one thing.

"We're not going fast enough, John."

John's reaction was momentary surprise, which then turned to sudden delight. He quickly pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside, letting Sherlock graze his hands greedily over the exposed flesh. John was in rather fit shape. His hard, defined muscles felt compact and solid. John might have been a foot shorter than himself, yet his toned body made up for whatever he might compensate in height. And my, my, did he like touching John Watson.

He reached up and brought John back to him, not liking that they had stopped kissing. He captured John's lips, devouring them in the similar fashion as John had except this time, Sherlock couldn't help the ferocity behind this kiss. He consumed him. Biting down on John's lower lip before pressing his urgent lips back into his, slipping his tongue into his mouth, tasting all of him.

John pulled back, panting and gasping for air. "I can't get my trousers undone with you doing… that."

Sherlock glanced down between them, noting that those horrible pants were still on. He reached between them, but before he could even attempt at unbuttoning them, John rolled off him and onto his back. He sat up on his elbow, pushing the stray dark lock out of his face to stare deliberately at John while he undressed.

John's fingers were trembling. He could see the evident arousal hidden beneath the layer of clothing, yet John's hands continued to slip on the clasp.

"Here, allow me," Sherlock said huskily. He carefully and slowly unclasped the buttons, feeling the hardness of John towering erection against the back of his fingers.

He watched in wonderment as John's whole body tensed and his back arched ever so slightly off the bed. Seeing John's excitement seemed to increase his own. He quickly pulled down the trousers and slipped them off. The second John was naked, a new vigor awakened in him. His eyes shot open and he grabbed Sherlock roughly, pinning him to the bed with the intensity of a predator.

Their kiss was frantic. Their bodies greedy. Both men seemed ravenous for the same thing. Each other. And both had waited far too long for this moment.

John seemed more passionate than ever. His body thrumming with the same need as he rubbed himself into Sherlock. Sherlock's only solution was to hang on and let himself be conquered by the solider. If this was what foreplay was, he planned on playing for as long as possible.

John's kiss melted away as he slid down his chest, pressing wet, hot kisses into his flesh. He teasingly sucked on his nipples, letting his body slide and touch every part of him. Sherlock nearly bolted off the bed when he felt John's cock press hotly into his own. The friction was unbearable.

He dug his head deep into the pillow, resisting the urge to yank John back up and suck on those tormenting lips. But it felt too good to make him stop. All of a sudden John's warm breath whispered across his erection and before he realized what John's intention was, he felt his mouth consume his flesh. Warm, wet, glorious mouth sucking at the aching flesh of his cock…

Sherlock let out a deep, guttural moan.

John hummed. The vibrations forcing Sherlock to jerk forward, which in turn further his cock into John's mouth. He didn't seem to mind though his hands now securely locked Sherlock's hips to the bed as his sucking quicken and grew stronger.

"Oh dear God… John!"

He couldn't believe the enormous pressure building at the base of his spine, tingling around his manhood, desperate to release. And yet he never wanted this beautiful pleasure to stop. Not when John was the one doing it to him.

He twisted the sheets in his hand, the other hovering over John's head, willing him to stay there until he peeked, until he…

Suddenly the rhythmic sensation stopped and John pulled away. He groaned in protest. "What are you doing…?" Sherlock was surprised at the breathlessness of his own tone.

John grinned. "Making you wait."

He instantly sat up, enraged, grabbing John by the back of his neck, forcing him to look at him. "Why? Is this punishment for something?"

"Not at all, Sherlock. But if you're going to cum tonight, it'll be with me inside you. Not by giving you a blowjob."

Sherlock's eyes widened and with that, John returned to being the predator in this game and pushed him back down on the bed, completely and utterly in control. Sherlock was too lustful and confused to protest. John was an expert at this. After all, he had more girlfriends than listed in the yellow pages and if John should be an expert at anything, it would be this.

"We need protection." John said as he straddled him, his thighs trapping him and Sherlock's cock brushing up against his backside. Sherlock was lost at how marvelous John's ass felt when determined dark eyes met his.

"This is a dream…? Do we need protection?" Sherlock asked, but when John hesitated, he pointed at his bedside table. "I have condoms in there."

John stared down at him curiously. "What?" His eyes narrowed then. "Why would you need condoms if you never have sex, Sherlock?"

He hesitated, and then admitted. "Experimental purposes. It felt like the appropriate place to hide such materials. A bedroom and such."

A smile pulled at the corner of John's mouth, making Sherlock suddenly blush. John didn't say anything though as he reached over to the night stand and withdrew a condom.

"Pre-lubed?" John asked, holding the telling condom overhead.

"It seemed redundant to make another purchase since this had everything I needed in one."

"Very wise."

Sherlock couldn't tell if John was making fun of him or not, but either way- it didn't matter. What mattered was the aching throb that burned for release between his thighs and the only person who seemed fit to relieve it sat on top of him.

Sherlock couldn't help but swallow the tension that had built in his throat as he watched John slip the condom over his large, thick cock. He shivered with sudden need. Oh how he wanted this more than anything. He wanted John inside him. He wanted to know what it felt like. Needed to know. Just looking at his manhood sent rushes of anticipation through his body.

John leaned over him, his eyes intent as his fingers grazed over Sherlock's body.

"I only see you this excited when a good case falls in our lap," John muttered, kissing the side of his neck.

"John, will you please shut-up and just put me out of my misery already?" Sherlock snapped. He couldn't help it. He was so twisted up inside, so tormented by his own body and the incredible arousal building up at his spine. If he didn't release this tension soon, he feared he might die- literally.

"Misery? Oh- is that what we call this?" John asked tauntingly. He sat up, perched his cock directly over Sherlock's and rocked his hips on top of him. Their erections met and brushed against each other. Hard flesh against hard flesh. Muscles tightened in Sherlock's legs, his knees buckling as he let out a gasping cry. John rocked up and down, harder and harder, until Sherlock's whole body burned with need.

All of a sudden, John maneuvered him onto his stomach, and reached around and grabbed his cock. Sherlock groaned, his body stiffening.

John pumped him a few times, before positioning himself behind him. Sherlock had read enough to know what happened next. Fear filtered through his brain for only a brief second. John wouldn't let him stop and think about what was going to happen. Instead he distracted him by gripping his cock with a bruising hold and pumping him vigorously. Before Sherlock could even cry out in pure bliss from the rush of sensations, John pushed forward and entered him from behind.

Sherlock tensed. John stilled. Choppy breaths filled the silence of the room. Slowly, John began to move. Sherlock felt the intrusive sensation of John's cock painful at first, but when he slid back out and then in once more, deeper—he let out a heady whimper.

"You all right?" John asked tightly. "I'll stop if you need me to…"

"No," Sherlock interrupted. "Dead God, don't stop."

That was all John needed to hear, because seconds later, he drove into Sherlock with renewed energy. He pounded into him over and over. The bed creaking beneath their weight. The sheets tangling in Sherlock's fierce grip. John gasped and pushed.

Everything felt perfect to Sherlock in this moment. But when John's hand started moving again on Sherlock's cock, tugging at the flesh, he froze. The anticipation building in his body finally peeked. The muscles in his body tensed before the shock wave of the orgasm slammed into him. John cried out, feeling Sherlock's body give completely to him. John took this opportunity to pound into him with the fierceness of a drill.

"John…!" Sherlock came magnificently. He shook and trembled, his cum coming in waves of pure ecstasy that wouldn't stop. It seemed to go on and on. Each thrust, each slam inside him made him come again. John was prolonging his orgasm with every thrust of his hips. All of a sudden he felt John's body tightened and then he came, a warmth spreading into him as his friend gasped and writhed with his own orgasm.

He pumped weakly into him, until drained. He slipped out, pulling off his condom and falling backwards onto the bed. Perspiration clung to John's neck, his legs spread lazily out before him and his chest heaved from exertion. Sherlock collapsed onto the sheets, his body depleted of all energy.

"This was one hellvua dream," John mumbled.

Sherlock glanced towards him.

"I can't wait to have it again tomorrow night," John said groggily. Drowsiness overcame John then as he closed his eyes and nodded off into sleep.

Sherlock slowly got up from the bed after a few minutes. It took him a second to regain his balance after such a shock to his body. He stood there in the darkness of his own bedroom for a moment. He glanced down at John. His handsome face was turned to the side as he slept, his nude body displayed before Sherlock. He marveled down at his wonderful friend. They had just shared a rather enjoyable night together and John was made to believe it was all just a dream…

He narrowed his eyes at him. No, he couldn't possibly think this was still a dream when he woke up tomorrow and came to his senses. He would have to realize they had sex and that they had to do it again! How could they not after what just happened? It was absolutely breath-taking and… hot!

Suddenly Sherlock straightened as he realized why he must let John believe this was just a dream. Sherlock was dead. Dead to the world. Dead to John. And he had to stay that way. Right?

Unable to think clearly from the sudden emotional whirlwind beating at his mind, Sherlock dressed and carefully placed John's clothes into a neat pile by the bed, along with the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand. He picked up the condom wrapper and material, shoving it into his pocket. No evidence would be left behind. He would let John go on thinking it was a dream. At least until Sherlock figured out what he planned on doing, because tonight changed everything.

Tonight he finally realized that John was more than just his friend. He was something else entirely…

_**TBC**_


	2. Dreams are for Men with Hope

**Chapter 2: Dreams are for Men with Hope**

"I dreamt of him again… Last night, actually."

"Same dream?" John's therapist asked from across the room.

He hesitated, then swallowed the rather large knot in his throat and shook his head. "Not exactly."

She nodded keenly, writing on her yellow tablet. John could only assume it was her thoughts, or her judgment of his issues. Maybe she was inscribing word for word what he was saying, which made him feel rather uncomfortable with such idea. Aside from the obvious lack of privacy in keeping his most intimate secrets kept on a yellow tablet, there was one very unobvious reason. Mycroft. Sure, John didn't work with Sherlock anymore since his death, so why would Mycroft still be interested in him?

Well, Mycroft was Mycroft, and John didn't trust him as far as he could throw him.

Mycroft was a sneaky bastard who enjoyed invading a person's privacy and anything else remotely sacred. Besides that, John already knew Mycroft had somehow read his therapists notes once before. So he knew that telling the good doctor everything this afternoon would be… illogical and just plain silly. That meant he wasn't going to be talking about his sex dream staring the late and great Sherlock Holmes, especially if his brother had access to such information.

"Tell me about the dream, John. How was it different?"

He cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his chair. "Just different…"

Her dark brown eyes stared coldly at him. He shifted again.

"I just had a… conversation with Sherlock. And if felt… real."

She nodded, than scribbled.

"Like really—real." John continued. "As if he were actually standing in the room, talking to me. I can still hear his voice ringing in my ears now."

Actually what he really kept hearing were… moans. Loud and guttural, to whimpering moans. The really hot kind. The moans made when someone was about to get off. Orgasm… And he could hear it coming from Sherlock's mouth. His perfectly sensuous mouth as John kissed and licked, tasted and… sucked.

He felt his face flush and his skin tingle at the memory. Oh dear God, he thought in alarm. It was like being an adolescent all over again—having horrible wet dreams that made him wake up with an erection one saluted to. And he was having them about Sherlock! He should have been alarmed this morning when he woke up. But strangely enough, he wasn't.

He was simply content to lie in bed and think about the dream. Think about how his body had animalistically knew how to be with another man and how in comparison with a woman, was different, and so enthralling. Maybe it had nothing to do with female or male- and everything to do with the man in whom he dreamt about. John's heart accelerated in his chest just thinking about it.

He had made love to Sherlock in his dream last night and it felt absolutely, incredibly—perfect.

And how John would have given anything to have that night again, that dream again. Problem was, it was just a dream.

"Where do you think this comes from? These dreams of Sherlock?" his therapist asked, breaking him out of his thoughts.

John knew instantly. When Sherlock was alive, John was secretly and irrevocably attracted to him—in a very sexual way. He had always admired Sherlock's intelligence and wit, with his manic tendencies. Yet what drew John to Sherlock in the first place was the way that the air around him seemed to electrify. Sherlock had been a man with a purpose, a goal, one in which he would do anything to get and have. John appreciated that, acknowledging how hard it was for most people to just go after the things they wanted in life. So he befriended this deducing, murder-expert detective and his life was forever changed.

But not too long after their partnership began, Sherlock's infectious personality began to consume John and the stronger their friendship grew, the more he knew how he felt and it wasn't at all innocent, but rather _lustful_. He fantasized about them often, always keeping it to himself and never revealing it to anyone. Especially Sherlock. Who wouldn't know what to do once something like that was revealed.

Yet somehow people kept making the assumption anyway that they were a couple, which John had to politely explain otherwise, though sometimes he wished he didn't have to. Now it was too late to have any of his desires come to life since Sherlock was gone and he would never know the truth in regards to his dear friend—that John may have actually loved Sherlock Holmes.

John, as always, was too late and too cowardly to act upon his feelings. It vanished the moment Sherlock stepped off that rooftop.

He glanced back to his therapist. "I dunno… I thought you might have some idea why he keeps popping up in my dreams."

She set her pen down softly on top of her tablet. "Honestly, I think you miss him John."

He said nothing, incapable of speech all of a sudden. It was true. He was lonely and having Sherlock around kept him away from the demons of his past. Now, he was back to being his normal, nobody self again, without a friend in the world. No one.

"Maybe it might stem from all the things left unsaid between the two of you."

He stilled. "We were just friends."

"Yes, but sometimes even friends share their emotions to one another. And I think you missed that chance with Sherlock's sudden departure."

"You make it sound like he caught a train instead of died." He mumbled bitterly.  
"I get the feeling that you're a bit angry, John. Is that the first reaction you have when you think of Sherlock's death?"

"He didn't have to die." John avoided the question. He didn't want to tell her that he'd been seething with this rage for quite some time now. Maybe it was because he never told Sherlock the truth? Maybe because Sherlock had been selfish, even in his final moments and jumped with so much left between them? Maybe John was just frustrated. Frustrated that his best friend in the whole world was dead. And it took his act of death, to show that Sherlock didn't ever really love him the way John needed him to.

"I know it's been very difficult for you these past couple weeks. But acknowledging how angry you are at him for abandoning you—is okay."

She hit a nerve within his soul and all he could do was stare dully out the window. "You're right. If he was still here and I could tell him how this past month has driven me mad- I would. I would yell it." He snorted then, shaking his head carelessly. "Not like he would care, mind you. He had more important things on his mind the day he jumped off the roof than me. He didn't care. He never did."

"You think what he did was selfish?"

"Of course I do." John retorted. "If Sherlock knew how to do anything right, it was to show off. And why not make his career ruin end with the ultimate stage of death?" He felt his hand rake through his short blond hair. "I don't think he realized that his final act in life didn't get an encore."

"Are you saying Sherlock's death was a mistake? That he made an error in judgment? Because most suicidal people do, John. You must understand that he might have done it out of desperation or despair. His life was spiraling out of control and the only thing he had control over was his own life."

"That's where you're wrong." John got to his feet, pulling his coat on with jerky, abrupt movements. "Sherlock had more than that—he had me. He just couldn't see it from his own arrogance."

John was angry. He spent the rest of the afternoon trolling the streets of London, an untamable rage rippling beneath his skin. His thoughts were dark and bitter. He replayed the day of Sherlock's death over and over in his mind. Each time he saw him fall...

Sherlock left him. He didn't care what it might mean should he abandon his only friend. He didn't think about those things. That was too emotional, too sentimental. But he should have, John thought suddenly as the cold bitter London air nipped at his ears. Sherlock should have seen that his friend cared for him—loved him.

His dreams from last night were breath-taking and wonderful but it was just a reminder of what he could and would never have. Dreams were for people with hope. And John didn't have that anymore. His dreams needed to stay in the dark, where only the magical properties of hard liquor seemed to give them life. Time to lay off the booze and time to get out of Baker Street, John commanded himself firmly as he quickened his pace towards the flat.

Sherlock wasn't coming back and he needed to restart his life without memories of his past haunting him. He just couldn't stand it anymore. Last night was his breaking point.

The only thing John could rationalize now was getting his stuff out of 221 Baker Street as soon as possible. It didn't matter if he had to stay at a motel until he found a cheap apartment. He might even call some old military buddies and see if they would loan him some money, or a place to live…

John pounded up the steps to the flat and entered the desolate building. He was halfway up the stairs inside when his mobile rung. Unknown caller. He hesitated but answered.

"Yeah?"

"John," Mycroft's lofty voice spoke from the other end. "Good to hear from you."

The simmering rage John kept tampered down all day slowly began to rise. "Aw- Mycroft. I'd say it's good to hear from you too, but I'd be lying. What do you want?" He climbed the stairs once more, hand pressing the phone to his ear.

"I see you've adopted my brother's charm today."

"Get to the point, Mycroft. I've got boxes to pack and a new place to look for."

"Very well." Mycroft's voice tightened. "We have reason to believe that Sherlock isn't dead."

John's whole body froze at the top of the stairs, eyes widening in shock. "What information do you have?"

"Enough to know it's real. He's alive."

"But how…? I saw him fall—I saw the blood." As John spoke he noticed that the door to Sherlock's apartment was ajar. Frowning, he pushed open the door.

Mycroft's voice continued on the phone. "I kept tabs on that flat of yours, knowing that if Sherlock were still alive, that might be the first place he would go. Sentential value, I suppose."

"Sherlock doesn't know what sentiment means," he mumbled.

"Yes, well apparently he does."

"What are you saying…? That he's been here?" Impossible. John barely left this place, he would know if a dead man tried sneaking in.

"Yes, in fact we have surveillance from last night that shows him scaling the side of the building and sneaking into the open window of your flat."

John barely registered what Mycroft had said as he nearly went into shock the moment he walked into the living room. Sherlock Holmes sitting in his high-back chair, dressed in his usual black suit and coat with his right leg crossed over his left thigh and his fingers clasped at the tips in his lap.

"Hello, John." Sherlock said in a causal undertone.

John dropped the mobile, listening to Mycroft's voice bounce off the hardwood floor. He stared dumbfounded at the very man that had tormented his entire life for the past month. And all he could say was… hello?

An indescribable fury welled up inside of John and the urge to cave in those perfectly symmetrical cheekbones with his fist of the very much alive "friend", overwhelmed him. Rage dulled his senses and he would admit later, his intelligence. John couldn't help it. Sherlock had that effect on people.

Forgotten was the sexual fantasy that was his dream the night before, and forgotten was the mobile still echoing Mycroft's voice on the floor. John marched right up to Sherlock and without thought or reason, stared down at the arrogant face that was the man he thought he knew and… punched him.

_**TBC**_

* * *

****Please review! Love to hear your thoughts on the evolving story so far!****


	3. Harder Sherlock

**Chapter 3: Harder Sherlock**

Surprise was hardly the word Sherlock would use for his current state. Stunned was more like it. John had just hit him—and he hadn't seen it coming!

"What was that for?" Sherlock asked, gingerly touched his aching jaw. "I thought you'd be happy to see me."

John stared at him incredulously. "Happy… to… see you?" He abruptly moved away from Sherlock to stand near the kitchen. Sherlock deduced John must have had another urge to strike him—hence his abrupt move.

"Sherlock, it's been weeks!" John nearly shouted. "I thought you were dead."

"Yes, but I am _me_ though. You didn't really believe I was dead, John."

John's dark brown eyes chilled across the room.

"You're right. I thought you were still alive."

Sherlock smirked, but John's words drained him as he continued. "At first, I had hoped you were alive—somehow. I didn't know how it was possible but I…" John hesitated. Sherlock saw the powerful, raw emotion cut across his friend's face but just as quickly, it vanished and Dr. John Watson straightened his back, becoming ridged.

"Your good faith has been restored. I am back." Sherlock said casually.

"Really?"

He cocked an eyebrow, noting the disdain in John's voice. "Yes really," he snapped back. "Clearly, I am back because my physical presence is here!"

"Well, fantastic, Sherlock. Glad you have arisen from the grave. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some packing to do."

He watched in sudden confusion as John began moving about the apartment, collecting his things, turning his back on him. He sprang to his feet. "What are you doing?"

"Packing. This is what one must do when they leave. Pack their things and…"

"Why are you leaving? You don't have to—not anymore. I'm here. We can resolve whatever financial issues this place has and…"

John spun on his heel and faced him. "Oh, so you know about that do you?"

"Of course, you wouldn't think I'd just let this place fall back into Mycroft's hands did you? I have contingency plans set in place should any financial difficulties come up."

"And you didn't want to share this information with me?"

"Of course I couldn't—I was dead."

"I mean before, Sherlock. Before you…" John suddenly stopped. Coldness shuttered over his features and he cleared his throat. "Right…" John then returned to his ridiculous packing, not saying a word, driving Sherlock mad.

What was wrong with him? Why wasn't he excited to see he was still alive? Sherlock had assumed that after last night… after they had sex, that things would change. He thought John would want him back. That he would want them to be together again, like old times with a little naughty tossed in on the really boring nights. Why not? It sounded perfect in Sherlock's mind. Except John was upset. John was acting like nothing happened and that they had never shared an incredible night together.

It hit him then. He stared, thunderstruck at John's back. John thought their night really had been a dream? That could be the only explanation on why he wasn't bringing it up now. He was hiding it. He was hiding his feelings. Sherlock suddenly saw this whole situation in a new light, but before he had time to think of how to resolve it, John abruptly stopped moving and turned to face him again.

"What else did you know about Sherlock?"

He hesitated, a strange spike of adrenaline piercing him. What was John hinting at?

"What do you mean?" He asked tentatively.

John tossed a semi-filled cardboard box on the chair in front of him. "What else have you been keeping from me? I guess I'm just a little curious now on what I actually knew about you—if anything before all this happened. This apartment seems more fitting to you than our friendship."

"What are you talking about?"

John gritted his teeth angrily, a jolt of fear shot up Sherlock's spine. Something had changed in John since last night, but something in himself changed as well. He wouldn't have come back if he felt it was critical to do so. After tasting John, holding him, feeling him throb beneath him in such an animalistic, lustful way, it forced Sherlock to realize that he couldn't hide anymore. He had to come back to him. John needed him and he… he needed John. He hadn't seen that until now.

But as he continued to look at his friend, he realized, he may have been too late. John was leaving him.

"I'm saying," John continued. "That this apartment has always been more you than me and I think it's time you found a new flat-mate."

"You're joking right?"

"No, I don't think so." John picked up his box and headed towards the doorway.

"Wherever you go, it doesn't matter John. I'll find you. Or my brother will."

He turned at the door, eyes furious. "Is that a threat?"

"It can be."

"So what…? Once I meet the infamous Holmes boys, I can never leave?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes sharply. "Maybe. You do know information about Mycroft that could be quite dangerous and now that I am alive, you know that too. The right information, as we both know, can be lethal."

"I don't care anymore, Sherlock. I'm done playing these games of yours."

Sherlock shrugged carelessly than and strolled over to the mantle over the fireplace, eyeing the old skull. "Fine, it's your choice. I guess I wouldn't want to give up my privacy for the sake of my pride."

He felt John's hard glare at his back and continued. "I understand you might be angry at me now, John—for not telling you about my plans these past weeks. But if you choose to leave, you'll be leaving a Mycroft, spy free area, to a potential camera hot-spot where nothing would be sacred to you anymore. Not even your precious therapy sessions."

"Really? Well from my chat with Mycroft just now, he informed me of your little nighttime prowling outside the flat. So don't tell me this is freedom from Mycroft, Sherlock."

"It's free enough." Sherlock stated abruptly. "More than you'll get if you choose to leave."

John snorted in obvious disbelief. "They caught you on camera sneaking in last night…!"

When his voice trailed off, Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. John was staring at him, his face pale, eyes wide with fear. "Sherlock…" he said slowly, as though his brain was finally catching up with him.

Sherlock froze. John was figuring it out. That his dream from last night was not a dream at all, but rather a spectacular revelation. Or was he?

"What?" Sherlock asked, pretending ignorance, wondering if John would admit to his dream? It was after all how it started. This was John's dreams or maybe his fantasies of them—together, as lovers. He just happened to actually be there when John was having such dream, well believing he was having it, seeing as how he was completely drunk.

"You were here last night?" asked John.

"Yes…"

"Why? Why where you here? What did you…?"

See. Sherlock filled in the unfinished sentence easily. He shrugged, remaining calm, testing the waters. "I came to check up on the place, and… you And what I saw was rather disappointing, John."

John stilled.

"Have you been drinking every night before bed? Or is that just your preferred method on sleeping? Drinking yourself into oblivion?" Sherlock asked.

John pitched the brim of his nose. "It's been difficult. Sleeping, that is."

"Is it because of me?" Sherlock prodded. He needed the truth. He needed to hear John say that he was happy he was back. That he had secretly wanted him. That he always had and was just too afraid to admit it. Sherlock needed answers and the only person in the world standing in his way on getting them was the man holding them back- John.

"You can't sleep because you were traumatized by watching me kill myself?" Sherlock asked.

"Do you always have to be so delicate, Sherlock?"

"It's a yes or no, John."  
"And why am I answering this question again…? Oh right! To inflate your ever growing ego. No thanks, I think I'll pass."

"No, this has nothing to do with me…"

"It has everything to do with you! It's always about you, isn't?" John's face flushed with rage. Sherlock had never seen him get this angry before. He stiffened, and shielded himself internally, waiting for the wrath that seemed to have been brewing inside of his friend for some time now.

John slammed the box on the floor and stepped towards him, his eyes bright with his emotions. Sherlock couldn't help the instinctive flutter of excitement in his belly. John was close, close enough to reach out and touch. And the last time he was this passionate, they were horizontal and naked.

"Why do you even care if I was miserable this past month? Since when have you ever showed me an ounce of feeling, Sherlock? You care more when there is an interesting puzzle of a murder than having me with you."

"That's not true…"

John cut him off, not listening. "I'm just a sidekick. No I'm less than that, aren't I? I've been another tag-along that you couldn't get rid of, right?" His eyes were as cold and as harsh as his voice. "We were never friends—not really, because you don't know what it means to actually be someone's friend. But you know what hurt the most out of everything, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shook his head dully, feeling as helpless as a child. He had hurt John. He just didn't see it last night. He became blinded by his own curiosity and arrogance, again.

"I knew that investing into a friendship with you was not the best move on my part. But for some reason, I had this grand notion in my head that one day you would just 'wake up' and realize that you _do_ have a heart. And that you could care for someone other than yourself. Someone like me." John brushed a hand through his hair. "God, I was such a fool to believe that… and when you jumped, it was then I realized that you had no intention to tell me the truth." His voice shot through Sherlock's body like a scolding bullet, straight for his… heart.

"You knew all along that I cared about you." John stated. "But you didn't care about that, did you? It's evident by the way you just threw it away so easily. That hurt me, Sherlock." John took a step back, his gaze still locked with his. "And I can't do it again. I'm happy that you're back. But I resign from being your lackey. I deserve better."

Sherlock strode towards him, feeling his own anger come to life. How could John believe all that nonsense? Had his time away drove him completely daft?!

"I came back for you!" He said indignantly. "You have no idea the lengths I went to protect you from Moriarty!"

John said nothing. He bent to pick up his box, to leave him all over again, when Sherlock kicked his box across the room, the contents spilling on the floor.

"Nice, real mature there." John said, ignoring the anger in Sherlock's expression.

"I'm glad my reappearance has sparked a newfound apathy in you, John. Almost convenient, wouldn't you say?"

John hesitated toward the box. "It just time to move on for me, that's all."

"Clearly!" Sherlock retorted. "It was very clear last night too when you so desperately asked me to tuck you into bed."

John's expression was that of a deer caught in headlights. "What?" He asked in a tremulous voice.

"Oh—you don't remember?" Sherlock walked slowly towards him, seeing the light finally switch on in his little friend's head. "Let me refresh your memory then…"

Sherlock, infuriated and full of energy, decided to make John understand one thing—that John still wanted him. He didn't care if he convinced himself that he no longer wanted Sherlock over the course of the day. What mattered was that last night happened and no one, not even the indestructible Dr. John Watson could ignore it.

He strode towards John with a determined glint in his eyes. He watched as John cautiously stepped backwards, stumbling slightly over the box and unintentionally backing himself into the wall. Sherlock was on him instantly, his hands planted on the wall next to him, pinning him there like a fly.

John shifted uncomfortably. "Sherlock…" he began warningly.

"Am I making you uncomfortable, John?" He asked in soft, seductive voice. John straightened instantly, eyes bright with alarm. "Good. I believe you're under the impression that last night was a dream. But it wasn't. It was very—much—real." He drawled out slowly.

John flushed and choked on an invisible string and began clearing his throat. With a shaky hand, he pressed it over his eyes and shook his head. "No, I'm simply hallucinating now. You're still dead and this is just me having a nervous breakdown."

"Your still sane, John. So stop hiding." Sherlock pushed his hand away from his face. "Look at me."

John's eyes were squeezed tight. His denial was incredible, Sherlock thought. He refused to believe that they had sex last night, and he had no idea why. Still, he promised to come back to this later. In the meantime, Sherlock planned on reminding his best friend why last night happened in the first place. Pure, raw, heat. A flaming desire that had been coursing through Sherlock for the entire day and no one could cure him of this longing other than the man before him. And oh how he wanted him again. Writhing, bucking and sweating on his bed. Crying out his name as he came over and over…

"Open your eyes, John." Sherlock insisted rather breathlessly. He was already feeling the stirrings of arousal around his cock.

John hesitated, then after a deep breath, his eyelids fluttered open to reveal the naked vulnerability in the depths of his beautiful eyes. Sherlock, unable to reason his way to a better response, bent forward and without hesitating, without thinking, kissed John.

Oh God, it was glorious. Sherlock felt his pulse race. His heart beat with triumphant. Finally! It had only been a night ago that he tasted John Watson, but it felt like an eternity to him. With sudden urgency he titled his head sideways and ravished his mouth with renewed force. John whimpered lowly in the back of his throat. Sherlock pressed harder. Wanting to suck and taste every inch of John he could get. His appetite for this wonderful, incredible man was insatiable.

It's why he couldn't stay away any longer. He needed John like he needed oxygen.

John pulled away abruptly than, his eyes wide and his lips kissed raw.

"I think I'm still dreaming… I have to be. This isn't real."

Sherlock smiled and slipped his hand over John's hard cock. "Does this feel real?"

"Oh dear God…" John panted out, his head falling back against the wall unceremoniously.

Sherlock still smiling, returned to ravish those supple lips. John returned the sentiment and began kissing with just as much passion. Before long the two men were wrapped tightly in each other's arms and making out like horny teenagers. Sherlock on multiple occasions felt John thrust his erection forward into him demandingly. And it aroused his senses like nothing else.

John might be able to deny him his heart, but he would not deny him his body.

Sherlock made sure to make every second last as he worshiped this body.

He yanked off his cumbersome coat and tossed it aside. John watched with under a heavy-lidded gaze, his chest expanding quickly from the rapid fire of his pulse. John was thoroughly aroused. Sherlock's own need spiked just looking at him. Bloody hell, he wondered in amazement, he had no idea that seeing another person getting off would be so… stimulating. But not just anyone, he realized. John. His John.

He reached for him again, pushing him back against the wall and caressing his hard muscled body. John shivered and licked the bottom of his lip. Sherlock bent down once more and captured that tantalizing tongue. John groaned, hips arching into him. His lips felt soft yet hard. Each kiss more ferocious than the last. John was eating him up and Sherlock loved it.

He pushed him back against the wall once more and without warning, dropped to his knees before John. He pressed his face into his stomach and inhaled the deep aroma that made up his lover. He sighed and held tight to the sides of his jeans. John moaned out his name, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair. A warm tingle shot up his spine and straight to his cock. Sherlock gasped in shock. He hadn't expected the sudden slam of the arousal and with trembling fingers he unclasped John's belt and pants.

John's breath accelerated instantly. "Are you sure?" He asked hesitantly, knowing what Sherlock had in mind, being on his knees and all.

Sherlock smiled and abruptly yanked down his pants. "I'm sure."

John's head fell back in submission and Sherlock licked his lips. John heavy arousal strained between his muscled thighs. He ranked his hands over those muscles, feeling the warm skin and tension beneath. John sighed, his cock ridged and pulsating. Sherlock, driven by instinct and his own excitement captured John's tip within his mouth and sucked.

John cursed loudly and jerked forward. Sherlock expected that and prepared for the intrusion in his mouth. He began a slow rhythmic sucking, in and out, caressing John's thighs, gripping him tight. His own cock strained against him, demanding attention but this was just as stimulating as he listened to the gasping whimpers and groans from the man above him. John writhed against him, anxious and needy. His fingers ranked through his hair now, pushing him closer and further down his erection. Sherlock hummed, sending vibrations down John's cock.

"Ah…! Sherlock… Sherlock! I'm gonna… oh God!" John gasped, his hips jerking forward once more. Sherlock felt the quivering tell and suddenly John burst. He cried out his name, holding him tight, his muscles bunching beneath his grip. Sherlock stayed between his legs and sucked, swallowing him whole and until there was nothing left. A surge of utter delight filled him. He was able to make John cum and for some reason, Sherlock was proud of that. So proud in fact, he wanted to do it again and again and again…

John weakly braced himself against the wall as Sherlock got back to his feet. He licked his lips feeling the weight of his cock between his legs.

John glanced down at him and straightened. His eyes told Sherlock everything. Want. Desire. Sex.

Unable to stop himself, he grabbed John, who kicked his pants off completely and went willingly with him. Before he realized it, Sherlock bent John over the edge of the couch and began unbuttoning his pants. His breath was choppy and his heart was racing. He was so excited he barely could hold himself upright. He watched as John peeled off his shift and tossed it on the floor, leaving him utterly, beautifully naked for him. Sherlock managed to unbutton his shirt, pull the condom out of his pocket and kicked away his pants, but that was as far as he got before he cupped John's marvelous, finely toned ass.

His cock twitched and ached with such need that he was afraid to even slip the condom on. It took him only a moment to peel off the package and place the condom over himself. His hands trembled over John's waist. His breath caught in his throat from his nerves. He'd never done this before…

All of a sudden, John reached around and grabbed Sherlock's hand. He pulled him forward and kissed their closed hands together. He groaned. John's unabashed show of emotions nearly undid him. It's what he liked best about this man.

Wordlessly, Sherlock positioned himself with his free hand and slowly entered John.

His whole world shattered in an instant. He had never felt this good in his entire life.

His stomach quivered and his legs shook. He heard John let out a small gasp and grip his hand. Sherlock tried to go slowly, but his prelubed condom and his demanding cock wouldn't let him. He pushed forward roughly, his body drawn tight with so much need that he almost came with that one thrust. But he would make this last. He would last, he told himself firmly as he pulled back and pushed forward.

All of a sudden, John let out a sensual moan and rocked back onto Sherlock's cock. He gasped. Then, unable to contain the desire setting fire to his blood, he began a slow, hard pound into John who was still bent over the couch in the perfect position. In. Out. Slow and hard. He could've kept this pace up until night fell. But John's body tensed around him as he let out a rushed whispered, "harder, Sherlock…"

He nearly came at how marvelously John sounded whispering his name. He listening to his instructions, he began fucking him harder now. It was rough and fast. He kept thrusting, feeling the anxious tingle around his cock. He didn't want to stop. It felt so wonderful feeling John's body surround him, immerse him. John's breathing came faster, his flesh was burning hot, and his body was tense and ready for climax.

"Sherlock!" John cried out and in that instant, he came. Sherlock felt the wave and shock of the orgasm slam into John as he came into the cushions of the couch and weakly fell into the edges, barely holding himself up.

Sherlock felt himself tense into a fine peek then as he reveled in the submissive feel of John's body, which was warmer and softer. He pushed harder and deeper than before, listening to John's whimpers of pleasure filling his ears. Suddenly his cock pulsated and without warning, Sherlock felt the rush of an orgasm rip through his body. He came. It was hard and furious. John pulled him closer until he was buried so deep into him he thought he might break him. But he didn't. Their hands still intertwined and when Sherlock's orgasm finally subsided, he lay weakly on John's back.

Both men panted and basked in their post-orgasm glory.

"John…" Sherlock heard himself whisper huskily as he withdrew and kissed his naked back affectionately. He paused then. His heart felt light. His body glowed. And his soul… if he had a soul, felt tender and sentimental. John turned in his arms before Sherlock had time to process this information.

He barely registered John's kiss until he opened his mouth slowly with his tongue. Sherlock sighed, leaning into him.

"Let's go to bed," John suggested.

"I have a better idea…" Sherlock grabbed John by the waist and tipped them backwards, landing ungraciously on the couch, all legs and arms. John laughed out loud in surprise and positioned himself on top of Sherlock's longer body.

"You're certainly fond of this couch, aren't you?" John asked.

"Even more so now." Sherlock said huskily.

John chuckled. Both men were content to just lie there and let the sun go down in the sky. Nothing mattered right now. Just this moment. Just each other.

Sherlock began to slowly daze off, his arm wrapped around John, the other tucked behind his head when he heard sudden footsteps on the stairs coming towards the apartment. He froze. John must have heard it too, for he looked at the door, alarmed.

"John, dear… I made some tea. Thought you'd might like some." Said the voice of Miss Hudson from the stairwell.

_**TBC**_


	4. Expendable

**Chapter 4: Expendable**

He shifted restlessly in his chair. Rarely did he get like this, he thought. There was only one person on this entire continent that could make Mycroft Holmes anxious. And that was his brother, Sherlock Holmes. He sipped his tea, waiting for the herbal contents to sooth his nerves.

Scanning the newspaper, feeling a slight pang of dread he flipped each page, fearing he was about to read the latest news on Sherlock's sudden reappearance. Luckily, the papers were out of the loop this time. Mycroft knew it was only a matter of time before they did become informed. Sherlock wasn't one for being subtle. Mycroft was smarter in that regard.

The only person, as far as he knew who was aware of Sherlock's resurrection was Dr. John Watson. Lucky again for Mycroft the good doctor was trustworthy of such knowledge, or else he would have taken precautions against Dr. Watson a long time ago.

"Sir?"

He set his tea cup back down, the soft clank of the glassware hitting. He didn't like being disturbed during his morning readings. Mycroft glanced up from his desk and saw his posh new secretary. Her long blond hair wrapped seductively around her neck and her tight black dress left nothing for the imagination. Women, beautiful women, were one of Mycroft's weapons against the less intelligent. Beautiful women had a way to distract. Hence why Mycroft employed so many, problem was on keeping them for any length of time. Most were too dim witted to last more than six months. This girl's prospects were already looking grim in his opinion.

"Sir," she continued. "Mr. Bradbury called…"

Mycroft stilled, his thoughts immediately being drawn to a halt. "And?"

She hesitated, flipping her notebook open, restating the message Mr. Bradbury left. "He told me to tell you, that the doctor's patient has escaped again and that he thinks the patient knows of brother's arrival."

Mycroft translated the message in his mind. He nodded coolly to her, his face a ridge mask. "Is that all?"

She glanced down once more. "He also said that the doctor is currently with the brother. Both might require medical assistance soon."

"Thank you Angela," he said dismissively. She closed her notebook and scurried out of the office.

Within seconds Mycroft had the surveillance detail of 221 B. Baker Street on the phone.

"Report, Captain." Mycroft demanded primly.

"Nothing new, sir. Alpha One has been inside all night since his arrival. Bravo Two is also secure. No activity, sir."

"No one's left?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Good—keep me informed if one of them leaves."

"Yes sir."

Mycroft dropped the phone back into the cradle and leaned back in his chair, contemplating. He should warn Sherlock. But there lied the problem. Since when did his brother listen to anything he said? Never. Should Mycroft even attempt to reach out to Sherlock, he might give away his advantage here as well. And Mycroft never gave up the advantage, at least not in this game and especially when lives where on the line. He paused realizing then that only one life was at jeopardy. And as long as it wasn't Sherlock's…

Mycroft pushed the intercom button on his desk phone. "Angela?"

"Yes sir?"

"Call Mr. Bradbury back. Tell him he is instructed to follow the brother now. If the patient makes a move, I can't risk the brother. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir," she hesitated. "But sir?—What about the doctor? What should I tell Mr…?"

Mycroft cut her off with a sharp snap of his voice. "Relay that message to Mr. Bradbury, Angela. Tell him that the doctor is expendable. That is all."

* * *

John nearly leapt out of his skin.

"Wait! Miss Hudson—WAIT!" John shouted toward the door.

Sherlock's chest rumbled with laughter beneath him. John tried pulling himself out of Sherlock's arms, but the devil wouldn't let go. He glanced up at him and saw the utter amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Sherlock—let go," he hissed urgently.

"I don't think I will. This is quite fun."

John heard the tell-tale signs of Miss Hudson's footsteps getting closer and closer. He saw that the door to their apartment wasn't locked, it was ajar! Eyes widening, heart in throat, John flung himself upwards and out of the shackles of Sherlock's lengthy arms. He stumbled and fell off the couch, and still very much naked, feeling the slight cold draft on his backside.

Sherlock's laughter grew louder now.

"Hush!" John ordered. "Where are my bloody… trousers… dear God…!"

"John?" Miss Hudson's voice rang out. "Are you sure you don't want a nice cup of tea-?"

"NO!"

John hurtled himself at the door, uncaring that he was utterly naked. He simply refused to have Miss Hudson see them like this. Naked and still flushed from hot, dirty sex.

"Oh John…" Miss Hudson saw disapprovingly through the door. "Now that wasn't very nice. You startled me."

Sherlock's mocking laughter filled his ears now, which only antagonized the whole mess of a situation they were in. The thing was- John seemed to be the only one who cared about being in this mess!

Heart racing, he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Miss Hudson but I'm indisposed at the moment. You caught me… about to take a shower."

"Oh dear… all right. Well, I'll come back in a few minutes then."

"No!" John burst out. "I mean… uh—how about I just come down to you… when I'm ready?"

She paused. "Is everything all right, dear?"

John glanced over his shoulder. Sherlock was still lying on the couch, his long, beautifully lean legs taking up the length of the cushions. His finely sculpted body stretched out comfortably with his hands tossed causally beneath his head and gazing seductively over at him. John sighed and looked back at the door, letting his head knock against it. "No… I'm fine, Miss Hudson. Everything is fine."

"All right, well I'll be going then." John listened to her footsteps retreat back down the staircase and into the hallway below.

He let out a long, exaggerated breath and let his tense muscles unravel against the door.

"That was unnecessary." Sherlock said.

John turned, no longer caring about his nudity as much. "I think that was very necessary. She could have seen us."

"She will find out eventually."

John paused, "Find out what?"

"That we're sleeping together. She's a clever one when it comes to sexual aspirations of males and the eventuality of her discovering us is a matter of time."

"Okay for one, that was more information on Miss Hudson than I wanted to know—ever. And secondly, the woman doesn't even know you're alive yet. So I sincerely doubt, no matter how clever she may be, that she would want to see you for the first time naked!"

"Don't be silly. She's seen me naked plenty of times. I don't understand why you're so concerned with this." Sherlock's obvious indifference irritated John.

"That's not the point, Sherlock." John spotted his trousers and shirt by the end of the couch.

"Than what is your point? Because if you're worried about Miss Hudson—don't. She already knows I'm alive."

John stilled. His eyes narrowed in on Sherlock. A strange stab of betrayal began gnawing at his insides. "What was that?"

Sherlock shrugged, arms still nestled behind his shaggy black hair, which was now sexily mused. "She knows I am alive. She's known for weeks."

"Weeks…?" John's voice was breathless, almost non-existent. A haze of red glazed over his eyes and he moved without thinking. He grabbed at his discarded clothing and began dressing, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. He could barely focus with the seething anger pulsating behind his eyelids.

How could Sherlock do this to him? Let him go on believing he was dead but telling everyone else that he was alive?!

Sherlock's sudden voice made John miss a button on his shirt. "What are you doing?"

John corrected the button. "Getting dressed."

"Yes, I can see that." Sherlock snapped arrogantly. "But why? I thought…" He hesitated.

"You thought what?" His voice was harsh with anger already.

Sherlock returned his gaze curiously. "I thought you would stay here with me. That we would continue…" he glanced down to the cushions of the couch and the sexual context of his suggestion wasn't lost to John. Sherlock's eyes cleared then, loosing whatever emotion was hidden there. "I was _hoping_ you would stay—with me."

"Aw—interesting how hopes have a funny way of turning on you? Don't they?" John slipped on his shoes and grabbed his jacket off the coat rack.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock jumped up the second John's hand was on the doorknob. "John? Where are you going?"

John, barely able to look at Sherlock, turned to him one last time. "Who else knows you are alive, Sherlock?"

"You, Mycroft of course, Miss Hudson and Molly."

"Molly?" John choked out.

"Yes, Molly." Sherlock said as though it were obvious. "She was the one who helped fake my death. Who else would know more about that than you?"

"Yes—and you certainly couldn't ask me, could you?"

"You know I couldn't." Sherlock snapped. "Moriarty had threatened me. And if I learned anything from that man, it was to take his threats seriously. I couldn't guarantee my own safety, let alone someone else's, John. I had to make a choice."

"I see." John's voice shook with sudden emotion. Not anger. Not hate—but sadness. Sherlock made his choice and John wasn't it. He _never_ was. "I understand now where I stand among the others. Thanks for clearing that up."

John opened the door but it was slammed immediately by Sherlock's hand. His starkly handsome face hovered inches from John's. Their breath mingled and he suddenly tasted Sherlock's mouth within his own for the briefest of seconds before shutting himself down of such foolish longings. Except he couldn't help it- not when those incredible bright blue eyes glared down into his with such hostility and… yearning.

John's pulse skipped a beat, he did everything in his power to ignore it.

"You understand nothing," Sherlock hissed. He angled his nude body dangerously close to John, backing him up against the door. But he was done being intimidated. John stood his ground and glared daggers up at Sherlock. "I did what I had to do to _protect_ you."

"From Moriarty?" John asked unimpressed.

"Of course!"

"I think I could've handled myself, Sherlock. Better than you no doubt." He straightened, forcing Sherlock's stance to waver and step back. "In fact—I've done just fine without you for the past month."

"Yes, clearly. Judging by the state I found you in last night. Yes, I'd say you were doing a bang-up job, Doctor."

"What I do on my own is _none_ of your concern. And I doubt you're actually concerned." John said bitingly. "You just like to pass judgment with that arrogant disdain of yours. You _only_ care when it personally involves you."

"So what? You think I'm stopping you now because I care about you?"

John snorted in disbelief. "My God—you are such a bloody…" He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. "What I'm saying, Sherlock—is that your only preventing me from leaving this flat right now because you want to waste the night away having sex. Personal gratification, using me and my body."

Sherlock's eyes darkened, not in anger but sudden desire. He moved closer, his body moving into and pressing John into the door. He shivered, unable to stop the flare of yearning now coursing through him. He clenched his jaw tightly, resisting the impulse to take his aggression out in a naughty way.

Images of himself pushing Sherlock backwards, tackling him on the ground, yanking off his belt and unsheathing his manhood where he would then ravish Sherlock's body like a conquering Viking. Fucking him right there on the floor, nothing but them and their hunger.

Oh dear Christ he needed some air. John could barely breathe anymore with the arousing desire burning in his belly, spreading like fire to his groin. Sherlock noticed this and hummed deliciously.

"I wouldn't say our night would be a waste, John." Sherlock pivoted his hips and without warning, slammed his aching cock into his. He pumped slowly, rubbing himself against him. It was so hot, so bloody arousing that John gasped out loud, his hands fisting close to prevent himself from bringing those images to life.

"Stop," John breathed out. "Stop…"

Sherlock's eyes sharpened on his face. "Make me."

John's jaw nearly snapped when Sherlock reached between them and roughly massaged his cock.

But this was just another game. Another seduction to keep him from leaving. Sherlock wanted sex and it didn't matter with who, at least that was what it felt like to John. Sherlock had hurt him enough for one evening, he wasn't sure his heart could withstand anymore.

John's desire dampened within seconds and he stilled within Sherlock's arms. Sherlock glanced up, searching his face intently. "What? What…?"

"You still don't get it, Sherlock." John abruptly pushed him away, unable to be gentle as he roughly untangled them. "If you cared about me at all—you would've told me your plan in the first place! And you showed up here expecting me to forgive you? Then I find out you told half of London you were alive before even bother getting around to me. And now… after all that's happened—you still don't have me convinced that I at all matter! I'm just your sex toy now." John shook his head and yanked open the door, eyes blazing. "You should've let me go the first time. Better yet, you should have never told me you were alive."

John didn't bother waiting to hear Sherlock's excuse or lie as he slammed the door behind him and took off down the stairs and out of 221 B. Baker Street.

* * *

The scope tightened around the door. He took a slow, steady breath and waited. He would wait here all night if he had to. It was part of the job. Part of his passion in life. This is why he was paid so well for what he did for a living. Kill. He killed. And he enjoyed doing it.

The door read 221 B. in golden letters. Reminding him on why he was there. He had a contract to fulfill and money to collect.

He continued to slowly breathe. Meditating in his restful slumber of patience. He had all the time in the world. He would be paid upon completion. Though the man that had employed his service for this job was dead, he was given a contract explaining how he would still get paid upon the employer's death. A contingency plan.

Ironically enough it all came down to an obituary writer at the London Post. Once his target's name was in the papers for the whole world to see of his death, he would get paid. It would trigger the alarm to his late employer's bank and the numbers would then transfer to his own. A sweet payday for the death of only _one_ man. How could an assassin, such as himself, resist the offer?

So he lied there on his stomach, arms cradling the sniper rifle, with the brisk London air nipping at his ears as he was perched on top of the roof across the street. Waiting. Only a month ago he believed his payday had been stolen when the other target jumped off that roof. Part of his contract said that if a Mr. Sherlock Holmes where to die, than all contracts were thus voided and no killings were to take place henceforth.

Except Sherlock Holmes was still alive and very much well. Now, there was nothing stopping the man behind the rifle with the scope trainer on 221 B. Baker Street, from killing his target.

Suddenly the door was flung open and out emerged his payday.

_**TBC**_


	5. Getting Emotional

**Chapter 5: Getting Emotional**

Sherlock really wanted to shoot something. Or maybe hack something off, like a corpse foot or an arm. He glared angrily back at the door in which John just rudely slammed in his face and all he could think of doing was… seethe. Damn that man. He should have listened to him. Sherlock was trying to tell him that he had protected him from danger! That's why he did what he did that fateful afternoon on the roof. It had nothing to do with being selfish, if anything, in Sherlock's opinion, he was the sacrificial lamb. One for the whole world to see and John—found it insulting?!

Sherlock snorted irritability, flinging himself away from the door and back onto the couch to rage. But doing nothing, just lying about didn't seem to help his anger. It only took him a moment to figure out that this couch wasn't helping either. It seemed imprinted with their last lovemaking session and he couldn't stop seeing John's expression turn to utter torment to then miraculous bliss the next. God, John was handsome when he came. It was like watching a symphony being composed right in front of Sherlock and he couldn't help but feed off those vibrations, those delicious, fantastically arousing sights and sounds.

He raked a hand through his thick hair and decided it was best to leave the couch, at least temporarily. Sherlock than began to pace. Not bothering to put on clothes, it seemed inconvenient and time wasting. Instead, he began to contemplate furiously. He needed to resolve his issues with John immediately. It seemed critical. That and getting John incredibly naked again and keeping him that way as long as humanly possible, or that John would allow.

His feet cut a burning track into the rug. He had to… think! Figure out how to communicate to John in a way that would appease him. Something—anything! Except… Sherlock stopped mid-pace. Except he kept getting all… emotional.

"Oh my God," He said out loud to the empty flat. "I'm _feeling_."

Unable to wrap his mind around such a concept, he panicked. He never lost control before. He never lost an argument before, but today Dr. Watson proved he could. Sherlock tangled his fingers in his hair, nearly on the verge of manic. He needed John back. John was his life—John was the one person in this whole bloody city that mattered. Hell, more than the city, the planet! He had to keep John. But he kept losing him somehow and he didn't understand WHY!?

Furious, he spun towards the closed door and bellowed with all his might. "MISS HUDSON!"

A startled scream came from downstairs, followed by the sudden quick moving feet on the staircase.

"Sherlock?" Miss Hudson asked timidly from outside the door. "Dear, dear—are you all right?"

"Yes, yes, come in already."

Miss Hudson scurried inside, her face flushed with surprise and her dark green dress horrid as ever. Her uncertain smile instantly wavered when she noticed his nudity. Her fear was momentarily forgotten and her hands went directly to her hips. "Sherlock! That's not a proper way to greet company."

"You're not company."

"Well, at least be decent when I'm about." She sighed, her hand fluttering over her heart. "I'm on old woman too Sherlock. So screaming my name in such a manner…"

"Oh be quiet for a moment woman, I have an important question to ask you!"

Her eyes widened in alarm. "Oh all right, certainly dear."

He stopped pacing, eyes narrowing and searching her face for deceit. "When did John start drinking?"

"What…? Why do you ask?"

Sherlock sighed impatiently. "Why doesn't matter right now. Just answer the question. He hasn't been his usual self lately, has he? Drinking more and more, correct?"

Flustered, she simply nodded.

"Right around the time of my death?"

She nodded again. "Since the nice funeral we had for you. He's just locked himself up here. Barely says a word to me most days. It was almost like when I first met him. Quiet and…" she hesitated to shake her head gravely. "Sad. He's been sad, Sherlock."

His mind grew sharper at these words. "Sadness is natural with grief. He would be grieving after losing a friend."

Her eyes turned a warm kind of pity towards him. "Yes, sadness is natural. But not the kind he suffered, Sherlock. I could see it in his eyes. You're death really tore him up."

He gritted his teeth. He needed more. He knew he was digging for something here, he just hadn't figured it out yet. "Tore him up? What do you mean, aside from his new fondness for excessive drinking?"

Miss Hudson for the first time since her arrival looked uncomfortable. His heart raced. She was hiding something from him about John. A sudden burst of excitement caught hold of him and he went to her, grabbing her by the shoulders and forcing her gaze to meet his.

"What are you not telling me, Miss Hudson?" He hissed. "I need to know. Tell me."

"It's personal, Sherlock. I don't know if he would appreciate me tellin' you something like this."

"I don't care, Miss Hudson. Our friendship is at stake here. I seem to be reading the situation with him all wrong. I need more answers on him in order how to properly communicate—make him understand that my disappearance was for him. He has to know."

Miss Hudson sighed. "Oh dear… this is why he was naked too I suppose."

He hesitated. "What?" It quickly dawned on him on her meaning, and with a dismissive shrug he said, "You'll get used to it. Now tell me. Please!"

"Fine, but you must agree to one thing first, Sherlock."

"All right—I won't tell him you spoke to me."

"No, not that you idiot!" She snapped irritably. "I want you to agree to be kind to him once you know the truth. I know how you are with that poor Molly girl and I'd hate to see you treat John in such a way."

He frowned in confusion. Completely lost. She continued after a deep, calming breath. "He's in love with you, Sherlock. He has been, I believe, for quite some time now, dear."

Bewildered, Sherlock took a step away from her and turned toward the window. John loved him? It was then, in that instant, flashes of their time spent together came rolling back like a flood. Images of them, solving cases, sharing breakfast, a few laughs, and mostly of them in this very apartment—always together. Just them. Sherlock felt his heart expand deeply as though something were filling it up. He took a gasping breath, unsure of this peculiar sensation inside him. He placed a hand over his heart, feeling it beat and thrum beneath the skin.

John did this to him. John created this emotional cavern inside his heart. And only John could fill it. No one else. It was never anyone else. Stunned by his revelation he was about to turn to say something to Miss Hudson when he noticed a white panel van parked outside his flat. He narrowed his eyes sharply. It looked too—government. His jaw clenched irritably. Mycroft.

"Sherlock…?" Miss Hudson began carefully. "I hope you're nice about letting John down. Don't be a prat about it. Promise me that."

Sherlock grabbed his trousers on the edge of the couch along with his black shirt. He was dressed in seconds, not bothering with his suit jacket, rather snagging his coat off the rack and slipping on his shoes. "I can't promise you anything, Miss Hudson, because for the first time in my life, I don't know what to do with such knowledge."

Miss Hudson smiled warmly at him and patted his shoulder. "It's all right dear. Love has a tendency to make us all a bit crazy in the head."  
Sherlock cringed at the idea. "I doubt I will be affected by such nonsense. It's all chemicals and I'm smarter than the average neuron. Besides, I know I am incapable of falling in love."

The finality of his tone ended the conversation. He turned to leave, his coat wings flapping out behind him.

Miss Hudson's voice trailed after him down the stairs. "Anyone can fall in love, Sherlock. It's the smart ones who fall the fastest, you know!"

He stepped out onto the curb, Miss Hudson's words lingering in his brain like a bee buzzing in his skull. Annoyed and still angry from John's departure, he directed his feet to the panel van across the street. He wasn't in love, he told himself firmly. He never felt such a silly notion so why should he feel it now?

Still he had to find John and he couldn't have gone too far. John would always come back to him in the end. No matter how angry. It was a matter of time. A waiting game. Sherlock wasn't sure he'd be capable of waiting, but alas- John gave him no choice. In the meantime, he would yell at Mycroft. Blow off some steam.

He reached the van and without warning, yanked open the back door and saw a man with large headphones on, pale as a ghost and sudden fear in his face.

"You—you can't be here!" He squeaked out.

Unimpressed by this man, Sherlock glanced over to the equipment contained in the van. Surveillance. Cameras all directed towards the flat, videoing everything. He pursed his lips in annoyance and noted the consol had a cell phone attached to it.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock demanded.

The man straighten, trying to regain his lost composure, except it was too late in Sherlock's eyes. "I'm filming a documentary."

"Of my flat?" His eyebrow arched skeptically. "Fine, stick to that story if you wish. Either way I know Mycroft sent you. So I suggest you get him on the phone for me now, unless you want me to beat you with that precious keyboard of yours."

Alarmed, the man hesitantly glanced at the keyboard and back at Sherlock, who just nodded. The man reached for the phone and dialed. He handed the cell phone to him.

"Bradbury? Update." Mycroft's prim voice sounded on the other end.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the sound of his own brother's voice.

"Oh Mycroft, what a surprise." Sherlock said drily.

"Aw—hello, Sherlock. How's life treating you?" Mycroft asked just as drily. They certainly were related.

"Lovely, thank you. More importantly, why is my home under surveillance, Mycroft?"

"I assumed you knew."

Sherlock gripped the phone, anger surging through him. Sometimes he wished he was an only child. "No, obviously I don't."

"Well since your sudden return I took precautions for you, seeing as how you didn't quite finish the job you started a month ago."

He stilled. "What?"

His brother sighed impatiently on the other end. "Please Sherlock- do not bore me with this. We both know exactly what you've been doing since your sudden demise. A bit of city sprawl hunting."

Sherlock's jaw clenched.

"You think we didn't notice some of the world's most deadly assassins went missing in a span of a month? All of whom were last contracted to Moriarty on their final jobs?"

"Your point?"

"My point, dear brother. Is that you missed one."

Sherlock felt his stomach drop. "I was under the impression Moriarty had only three assassins that day…"

Mycroft's voice was chilling as he said slowly, "You were wrong, Sherlock."

He nearly dropped the phone as he glanced back down the streets to see, in some vain hope, John coming around a corner. If Mycroft knew he was alive, that meant this assassin did. And if the assassin was still alive, so was his contract with Moriarty, which meant someone close to Sherlock was about to be murdered. And he knew exactly who. His heart twisted so painfully he thought he was in physical pain.

"He won't come after me!" Sherlock snapped suddenly on the phone to Mycroft. "He'll be going after John. Why aren't you protecting him?!"

Mycroft tisked disapprovingly. "Possibly because he is not family, brother."

Sherlock's anger flared to life and he violently threw the phone inside the van, shattering loudly. He glanced once more up and down the streets. Taxis, people, cars, business bustling as usual. Business as usual… problem was, John was now missing and there was an assassin on the loose and Sherlock had no leads.

He turned to head back to the flat, to enter his place of thoughts and possibilities when he stopped and his eyes shot to the surveillance inside the van.

"Do you have the last twenty minutes on those cameras?" he asked.

Bradbury nodded, "Yeah- of course."

"Pull the footage from the last twenty minutes. I need to see something."

"I don't think I can…"

"Shut-up and do it. Or I will enjoy pummeling you with this keyboard."

"Okay!" Bradbury's fingers rapidly tapped on the keyboard, bringing up screen after screen of fast moving images, and pushing through them until… the computer screen stopped at the figure of John. He emerged from the door looking flustered and angry. Sherlock felt his heart leap at the mere sight of him. He was safe, well at least for the time being. He continued to watch. John pinched the brim of his nose and sighed heavily. He looked… defeated. Sherlock's gut twisted uncomfortably. He did that. He caused that pain in those warm brown eyes.

John dropped his hand away from his face and glanced up to the sky as though trying to clear his thoughts and shake off whatever damage Sherlock had done to him. It was then, with John's eyes towards the sky that he saw something. Sherlock watched as John's eyes sharpened and without warning, John glanced back down, clocked the streets and moved quickly across the street.

He saw something that made him alert. Something…

"Is there cameras pointing at the other end of the street?"

"Uh yeah," Bradbury said. He pulled up another screen on top of the one of John. Bradbury stopped it at the same time John crossed the street. The video was of a wide angle of the entire block from the street up. He saw the side figure of John looking upwards than running across the street. Sherlock followed the gaze of John and saw the building opposite. Windows, doors, people… a reflective light on top of the building. A reflective light from a… lens. But not just any lens—a rifle scope.

His heart lurched in his throat and the only thought rushing through Sherlock's mind was—John had found his assassin. And who would Sherlock find still alive on the rooftop? The lethal assassin? Or his John?

Sherlock shot out of the van like a bullet and made his way immediately towards the building. Propelled by the knowledge that John could be in trouble, and absolutely terrified too. Sherlock feared that he was already late. He pushed those wretched thoughts down though. Refusing to believe that John was hurt or worse… dead. Oh God, he thought, his knees nearly buckling on the steps of the building.

What if John was dead? The sudden swell of emotions he felt earlier around his heart seemed to cripple him now. Tearing and ripping at his insides.

He gripped the door handle of the building, feeling his body shake with raw fear. He had never been emotionally compromised going into a battle before. Now, Sherlock felt everything and all of it was for John. Miss Hudson was right. The smart ones fall fast. He should've known better. Problem was, Sherlock had never been in love or thought he could love. So taking precautions around his heart never crossed his mind.

He glanced up to the roof realizing then that he was a bloody idiot. Sherlock loved John from the start. He just couldn't see it out of his own pride and arrogance. Now it was about to cost John his life. And Sherlock couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't. Seconds later, Sherlock pushed open the door and ran inside. If he had to jump off another roof in order to save John all over again, he would. Except this time, Sherlock would die and there would be no coming back from that end.

_**TBC**_

* * *

****Holycrapbatman this story is eating away at my LIFE! I think it's because I've wanted to write a Sherlock/John story for waaaaay to long, so now it's punishment. Though not for you readers I bet. So be grateful that I momentarily don't care about school or life & have devoted way too much time to this friggin story! Hope you like it. Again- I don't like one-shots & when it comes to my style of writing, you get a story with your slash. PLEASE let me know what you think so far! And maybe what you hope Sherlock might find on the rooftop. In the meantime, I'm going to bang my head against the wall to taper off the flood of ideas ;) ****

**~luv kidneythieves **


	6. A Desperate Man

**Chapter 6: A Desperate Man**

The rolling sounds of thunder woke John. He smelled the rain and electricity in the air. His brain felt fuzzy and disconnected. Eyes opening slowly, his gaze drifted upward. He was on his back he realized, staring up at the dark stormy skies. Large luminous clouds hung overhead, ready to break and rain down on them. But at the moment, it seemed to be waiting. Waiting for the lightening to get closer, or maybe for John to wake up.

He rolled to his side and instantly felt the jolt of pain shoot through his head. His fingers were dirty from the gravel of the rooftop as he touched the spot where his head ached. It was the side of his temple, wet blood soaked his hair and ear. He saw a pool of blood gather from where he had been lying.

All of a sudden, it came rushing back to him. He remembered running up the stairs of the building, believing he had spotted a sniper rifle trained on the front door of 221 B. Baker Street. He remembered thinking this gunman was probably after Sherlock. Finishing the job Moriarty had started but never got the chance to complete. Except when John snuck up the final stairwell, panting and pulling out his military issued gun out from his jacket, he felt a vicious hit across the skull and the rest… was blank.

He pulled himself upright and saw that he had been dragged into the middle of the rooftop, nothing surrounding him but his own blood at his feet.

"Dr. Watson." A voice rang out. He turned instantly, searching vainly as a figure emerged from the darkness. "Glad you finally decided to wake up."

John didn't recognize the voice at first. Though he was sure it wasn't Moriarty. It was low and cold, emotionless and harsh at the same time.

"Who are you?"

"The man hired to kill you," the man said casually, as though ordering a sandwich from the shop.

John's throat tightened, but it wasn't from fear. No, John lost his ability to be afraid a long time ago in the war. He wasn't afraid of death, not anymore. Still, he was afraid of pain. Pain could drive a man mad, he'd seen it and that's why his throat tightened. If an assassin was hired to kill him and hadn't done it yet, it made him wonder what this lethal man had in-store for him if not his immediate death.

"Moriarty I assume," John said.

"Correct assumption, Dr. Watson."  
"Fine then. You were sent to kill me by a dead man, I think there might be a hole somewhere in that logic."

"Not at all, Doctor." The man stepped towards him ever closer and the figure of the man was revealed.

The storm clouds brimmed with unshed rain and lightening, preparing for a hellish show. John suddenly realized he knew this man. He was dressed in military issued cargo pants and a tight black t-shirt, old dog tags hanging around his neck. His dark brown hair was cropped short, jar-like, and his face was cleanly shaved. His muscles were thick and his stance sure. The man standing before him was Corporal Nick Fowler. A man from John's own platoon. An old friend.

His stomach plummeted.

"Hello, John." Nick said a touch of a smile on his ruggedly handsome face. "Good to see you."

John stilled when he saw the pistol tucked in Nick's military belt. "I'd say the same to you, except—I'd be lying."

Nick laughed. "You were always an honest man. I liked that about you."

"Aw, well I see it's not enough to prevent my death, now is it?"

He shook his head lazily. "Not today."

John searched Nick's face, wondering if there was anything he could say to get out of this. Except he knew perfectly well there wasn't. Nick and John had history. And their history was covered in blood.

He swallowed, seeing the glint of glee in his killer's eyes.

"So this is more personal than business for you, is it Nick?" John asked curiously, deciding then to try and stall as long as possible. Maybe if he drew this out… Maybe he could somehow turn the situation… maybe not. He'd at least try though. He wouldn't fold his cards that easily. Not to this man. Not to this villain.

"Business at first—yes. When I found out it was _you_, my God then I realized it was fate."

"You've always wanted to kill me."

He saw the muscle in Nick's jaw clench. "You deserve to die for what you did."

A shiver swept through his body at the certainty in his tone. John wanted to shake his head in disbelief. But he knew Nick would see it as an insult to injury, so he remained calm and detached as possible.

"There was nothing I could do, Nick. You know that."

Nick's eyes blazed furiously. "You could've done anything! And still you LET HIM _DIE!_"

John felt an invisible punch to the gut. He stepped back instinctively at raw fury being displayed before him. He saw now that trying to keep the emotion out of this discussion would be impossible.

Once they had been good friends. Friends in the midst of war bonded men together like nothing else. A friendship forged in fire and death. Never in a million years had John thought they would end up like this. But things happened out on the field beyond a doctor's abilities. And he would've done anything to change what had happened.

"I did my best. We both lost a friend that day." John replied softly.

He saw images of that fateful day come hurtling back. Nick behind the wheel of the humvee, John sitting in the back with… David. Everything had happened so fast. One minute they were laughing, joking around as usual when an I.E.D exploded beneath the humvee. Nick, not realizing it, had driven onto a road riddled with small landmines which were prepared to maim and kill.

John could hear the explosion, the ripping of metal, the screams of David right besides him.

"You did nothing." Nick's voice was barely a whisper of his rage as he stepped forward suddenly, preparing to kill him. John knew that look. He'd seen it himself, reflected in the faces of men going into battle. And he'd seen Nick give him this exact look the day David died. Nick would have killed him if he had the chance.

John steeled himself, ready to die but not ready to give up just yet. "I didn't kill David. What happened was an accident."

Nick laughed hollowly. "It doesn't matter anymore… The past is dead and gone."

"Then why did you take this job?" He asked. "Clearly you're still angry at me. You want revenge. Fine, take it. I'm not stopping you." John crossed his arm over his chest and stood before him defiantly.

Nick said nothing, a haunting smile on his cold face.

John narrowed his eyes, wondering why Nick was drawing this out. What was he up to? What did he really want?

"If you were hired to kill me by Moriarty—why didn't you just kill me then? You've had plenty of opportunities. And if I remember correctly, you're a good shot."

Nick smirked. "I am and yes, I had many opportunities to kill you but I chose not to."

"Why?" John was confused. Nick had been enraged at him the day David died. John knew Nick blamed him. He had always assumed that Nick and David had been close, serving many times together over the course of their military career. And John was the third wheel but they didn't make him feel like one.

He once again could see David's wounded and bleeding body stretched out on the dusty road, as Nick stood over him, tears streaking his dirty face and utter anguish burning in his emerald eyes. He was a man lost then. John saw the devastation and felt the pain rip threw his own heart. His medical abilities couldn't bring the dead back to life, but still in Nick's pain he could only see John sitting there next to the body, incapable.

And to this day, John never really knew the depths of Nick and David's friendship or what they had been through. Almost like himself and Sherlock. They solved murders and mysteries, becoming secluded in their own world—together. Their friendship had engraved into John's soul and he knew that in the month of believing Sherlock was dead, had been that of torment and misery. For the first time, he understood the pain of loss.

"Why am I not dead, Nick?" John asked.

Nick's face hardened and he pulled a picture from his back pocket. It was worn and creased in the middle but he could still make out the faces. It was Nick and David, their arms over their shoulders, standing on a beach somewhere and smiling. Both men were blissfully happy in that snap-shot of a moment.

"We were more than just friends, John. David was my partner."

His voice sent a chilling numbness down John's spine. "Oh God…" he breathed out, realization dawning on him.

"Yeah… I would be afraid too." Nick replied, tucking the picture back in his pocket. "He meant more to me than anything else in this miserable world and you couldn't save him."

His heart twisted painfully. A sudden wash of grief overpowered him.

"I'm sorry, Nick… I had no idea. I'm so… sorry."

Nick's cold smile held strong. "Good- you should feel sorry. But it's not enough, John." All of a sudden Nick pulled a needle from his other pocket and before John had time to react, the needle sunk deep into his neck. Nick squeezed his throat painfully tight, raw, untamable rage flashing in those empty eyes as he forced him to look at him. "I want you to experience the same agony I felt when I watched David die and could do _nothing_."

Confused and dazed, John felt his body begin to tingle. His heart pounded and his blood seemed to boil. Everything was slowing down and his limbs grew heavy, yet his mind seemed unaffected.

"I've watched you for some time now, John…" Nick breathed out, still holding onto his now crumpling body. "I watched how you acted when that Sherlock Holmes died. I saw the torment and at first, I enjoyed every minute. I drank it up. Loving your pain, wanting you to suffer. Eventually I decided it was high time I bloody kill you. You couldn't possibly have loved Sherlock the way I loved David, so your pain wasn't enough anymore. I wanted your blood. I needed to taste it."

Suddenly, he released his neck and John fell face first into the hard gravel rooftop. He groaned, his body completely useless. He was paralyzed from whatever drug Nick injected him with. Invisible bonds of that chemical had wrapped him up, leaving him immobile.

He felt the hard prod of a foot as Nick kicked him onto his back. John gasped in pain. He kicked him again, his eyes dancing in delight.

"I was about to kill you when I noticed a certain friend of yours was still _alive_. A fuckin' surprise that was." Nick pocketed the needle and pulled out his gun. "Sherlock Holmes- the clever bastard was still breathing. At first, I was furious. Then when he came to you that night…" Nick shook his head and sneered in disgust. "I wanted to kill you both. Lovers reunited. God spare me. But then I had an idea."

He tapped the gun to his temple. "Brilliant if I say so myself…"

John watched the storm clouds pulsate and vibrate, preparing to drown them. He hoped it would. He wanted to be scorched by the fire of lightening rather than die at the hands of this lunatic.

"I wanted you to relive what I have every day of my miserable existence." He knelt down to John, pressing the gun to his temple, forcing his head to turn up towards him. His eyes were as dark and menacing as the clouds above. "I want you to watch your lover die for real this time. And you'll know it's real, because I'm pulling the trigger. And I want you to be unable to do anything about it."

John nearly stopped breathing. He moaned out a desperate plea, unable to stop himself. Not Sherlock. No. Not again. He wouldn't—couldn't watch him die again.

"You can't speak, move, or scream for him… all you get to do is watch. Watch him die."

John choked on his cry, trying desperately. But nothing came out. A horrible pressure began to crush his chest, feeling his heart cave in.

"You know what they say about desperate men, John. Gratuitous acts of violence are their punishment."

_Sherlock_… No please, he heard his mind cry out but his lips wouldn't move. The drug was getting stronger. It was shutting him down making it impossible to blink and now breathe. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. He would watch Sherlock die all over again and be unable to stop it just like Nick planned. John fought ferociously against the powers of the drug. Sherlock would not be taken from him again! Not after everything that had happened. Not after what they had shared and finally experienced together. He loved him. He loved him…

"Best of all," Nick whispered darkly. "Sherlock will find you just like this. Dead to the world. Broken and bleeding. He will die, believing you are dead. I call it my Juliet cocktail." He chuckled and as he continued to laugh, the clouds broke overhead and the rain began to fall. "Don't worry though, in less than an hour, my drug _will_ kill you. But not before the big show."

_**TBC**_


	7. O'Death

**Chapter 7: O'Death**

The sound of gunfire alerted every sense in Sherlock's body. Running faster now, he climbed the staircase up to the roof. John was up there. He was already too late. Heart pounding with such incredible force, Sherlock nearly tripped on the last step. Please, please, let that be from John's gun and not the snipers, he thought desperately. He could not afford to lose John. Not now. Not when everything finally made sense.

They were always supposed to be together. He saw that now, clearer than any deduction he ever made. John was his. Always been his. He just had been too blind by his own ignorance to see it!

Sherlock never loved a single person in his life yet somehow the Doctor snuck inside his closed heart and gave him a new purpose. Life. A life with him. And a brilliant good life, Sherlock was sure of it. If it was half of what they had from before all this, it would be enough.

Now, someone was threatening his newfound love and Sherlock couldn't have that. Not when he just discovered it damnit! He burst through the door to the roof, uncaring if he was crashing his way into a scene of a deadly game. John might be in jeopardy, he had no time for waiting.

Expecting to see him and the shooter, Sherlock glanced about quickly. He was greeted with an empty rooftop. No one around except…

His heart stilled. His eyes narrowed to the spot of blood by his shoes and the trail that followed towards… a crumpled form of a man by the edge of the roof. His eyes assessed every tiny detail with obsessive scrutiny. He recognized the back of the coat. The black leather patches on the shoulders, the used, worn-out look of it—it was John. Sherlock felt his stomach lurch. John wasn't moving.

"NO!" Sherlock screamed. Rain and wind tore at his face as he plunged headlong into the storm.

He saw the largely growing pool of blood forming beneath John's body. Droplets of rain beginning to flood it.

In that instant—his whole world shattered. The pain was sudden. The despair gutting through his heart like a dull blade. Everything felt out of his control. Nothing made sense. John was dead…? No, no, no… this was wrong!

He stopped inches from the body and heard himself let out a soft groan of despair. Falling to his knees, Sherlock slowly turned his body over into his arms. His mind instantly rebelled at what he saw. John's face was ashen. Pale, unmoving, and utterly expressionless. Gingerly cradling John's head, Sherlock's hand slid into something moist and warm matted in his hair. He withdrew his fingers, and was greeted with the horrific sight of blood. A fierce tightening took hold around his throat, nearly choking him.

"John…" Sherlock whispered hoarsely, pulling him close, pressing his face into his chest. "John… don't you dare die. You can't… Please…!"

John wasn't dead. He couldn't be. If he died…

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat, his emotions suddenly brimming to the surface like a dam on the verge of breaking. But it was too late, it was already shattered. He had nothing left but this man and if he was gone… so was he.

"You selfish idiot…" He mumbled, tears already swelling. "Go and get yourself shot after…" he choked. He clenched John's shoulders tighter, willing him with every fiber in his being to bring him back. "I need you too much, John." His voice cracked. "I should've told you everything… I shouldn't have been such a fool!"

His fingers traced his neck and felt for a pulse and then found a small prick of a hole from a needle. It was swollen as though after being forcefully stabbed by it. The shattered pieces of Sherlock's heart revived. Eyes widening in realization, Sherlock noticed the way John was laying. Different somehow—different from the way a dead man lied. And the needle mark…

A flutter of a pulse greeted his fingers once more and Sherlock let out a strangled gasp of relief. He clutched John closer, knowing everything in an instant. If his deduction was correct, than John was alive and his shooter was still on the roof.

Sherlock pressed his cheek against his, feeling the rain and blood touch against his flesh. "That's right… fight it, John." He whispered huskily. "I know he's still here. I'll stop him and fix whatever he's done to you."

He wrapped his fingers through John's stiff hand, holding him. "_Fight it_…! Do it for me, John."

John lived. Now it was up to him to keep him alive. Sherlock pulled off his coat and slipped it beneath the side of John's bleeding skull, then tucked the remainder of the coat over his face to protect him from the rain. Slowly and gently he pulled away.

He stood. Arms outstretched, rain pelting him with renewed vigor. The storm clouds brimmed and the air crackled with electricity. Rain matted his black long sleeved suit shirt, soaking him through. He didn't care. Nothing mattered but confronting the man who did this to John.

"Come out shooter! I know you're still here!" He shouted into the wind. "Show yourself."

Seconds later a man dressed in military grab emerged from the shadows, gun in hand. Cold rain fell on them. The storm raged above, ready to break into a frantic show of lightening any minute now.

"You're a fast climber, Mr. Holmes. I didn't expect you so soon." Spoke the man with the gun.

"Sorry to disappoint you, normally I'm late on every other occasion, today must be the exception."

The lethal man before him smirked darkly. Sherlock assessed him quickly. His deduction process seemed faster, more urgent than ever before. He knew why. John. Somehow he was dying. Whatever this man injected him with it was lethal. And Sherlock didn't have time for games, not even his favorite kind- the deadly kind.

He realized one blaringly true deduction—this man wanted to kill him.

"What did you inject him with?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"My own cocktail. Something special."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Yes, I can tell. Its paralytic effect on John is quite remarkable."

The man smiled, his gun aimed directly at Sherlock's chest.

"Yes, it is. I made it for him. I wanted him to hear you die. I wanted him to suffer."

The man's hand steadied and Sherlock knew he had less than a second before that gun was fired. He had to stall him, figure out a plan—analyze the situation.

"You're old war buddies then?" Sherlock asked, knowing he was right. The gun wavered. He saw his window of opportunity and took it. "You know John. This kill is personal for you. I can tell by just looking at you that you're a man who takes himself far too seriously."

The man's nostrils flared contemptuously.

"You are physically fit," Sherlock continued breathlessly. "But overly so, almost as if your compensating for something."

Another flare of contempt. Sherlock was correct, his reactions were clear and easy to read. "Maybe it's not—maybe it was the lack of discipline your whole life—maybe that's why you chose to go into the military. There, you met John. But unlike John, you came out of the war damaged."

"John's damaged," Snapped the man. His anger shining through his cold eyes. "I read his therapy transcripts. You should read them sometime, Mr. Holmes. They're enlightening."

"I'm sure, but your damage is not of the mind, sir. No yours is much more severe. Far greater even… Something of the heart? You lost someone didn't you?"

"How could you possibly know?"  
"Love is the deadliest motivator of all," Sherlock cut in. "It can make anyone capable of anything. Including murder. For you, the push wasn't all that hard, was it?"

"Fair enough, Mr. Holmes. I heard about your deducing skills. Interesting but not helpful. John's dead."

"He's alive." Sherlock returned harshly.

"Just enough to keep his senses tingling for a bit." He glanced at his digital watch. "He's got less than forty minutes. After that, he's worm food."

The man stepped forward boldly, the threat of his gun forcing Sherlock to step backwards towards John.

"Get closer for me, will ya? I want John to hear you gurgle on your blood once I shoot you."

The sudden dawning of realization struck Sherlock. This man's madness was clear. Sherlock stopped moving, refusing to succumb to the terror this man was forcing him to endure.

"What did he do to you?" He asked curiously. "Obviously something important, or else we wouldn't be here."

"It's none of your concern."

"Oh, I think it is. Considering I'm about to die for it. So what's the point of keeping it a secret from the man you are about to kill?"

The man narrowed his eyes dangerously than glanced over to where John lied.

"You're man there, he's death."

Sherlock felt a shiver course up his spine. "He couldn't save someone—someone you loved."

The man's eyes shown with a reckless fury. He rushed forward to Sherlock, gun pointed directly to his temple. "What do you know of love? You're nothin' but an empty shell."

"I may not know love. But I'm certainly not incapable of it." He countered.

"Oh the high and mighty Sherlock Holmes can love? Who knew?" the gunman mocked.

"John did." Sherlock said daringly. With a rush of movement, he flew forward, propelled by a sudden burst of energy and rage.

The man fired off a shot, missing Sherlock by mere inches. He viciously knocked the gun out of the man's hand, breaking a few fingers in the process. He grunted painfully. Sherlock grappled with the solider then, wanting to take him down. Twisting his body to the side, he rammed his elbow into his gut. The gunman let out a cry of pain. Sherlock didn't have time to battle. Time was running out.

He maneuvered out of the man's reach, slipping behind him to land a hard front kick to his back. The gunman stumbled forward, falling steps away from the ledge. Sherlock, panting, didn't hesitate. This man threaten John's life. He brought destruction and fear in the form of a gun. He deserved death.

And today, Sherlock would be death. A cold, ruthless death.

The gunman turned to face him, getting to his knees. He may have been defenseless, but Sherlock saw the fury seething in those dark eyes. He wanted to kill. Sherlock wouldn't give him that opportunity—ever.

Rain pelted the side of Sherlock's cheek. He heard the roar of thunder above him. "It's over. You've lost." He said to the man.

He shook his head. "I've won. John's soul will be mine- doesn't matter if you take me in and lock me up now, Mr. Holmes. _John's mine_."

Sherlock arched a dangerous eyebrow. "Who said I was taking you in?"

The gunman looked up at him, realization dawning in those animalistic eyes.

"I don't believe in God or the Devil, sir. But I do believe in death. The world's only true equalizer."

"You're not gonna kill me," the gunman breathed out. "You can't…"

Sherlock felt his rage surge through him as he knelt before the man and yanked him to his feet. "You see, that's the thing about love. It makes us all temporarily insane. And unfortunate for you, you went after the man _I_ love. And I won't be satisfied until I have _your_ soul!"

Sherlock pushed, and then released his grip. The gunman's feet slipped off the wet ledge and fell. Sherlock stepped to the edge to watch. The gunman's body landed with a horrific crash on top of Bradbury's van. Agent Bradbury stumbled out of the back, holding his cell phone, stupendously shocked as he stared at the dead man on his van.

"Agent Bradbury!" Sherlock called down. Lightning flashed in the sky above him and harsh wind danced around him with a crackling intensity. He felt the thunder pound in his heart.

Bradbury glanced upwards, mouth agape.

"Call my brother back." He shouted. "Tell him I've been shot and need medical attention. Quick—I'm dying!"

Bradbury, still dazed, glanced at the phone in his hand and numbly dialed the number for Mycroft. In a matter of minutes the whole of the British government would be barreling down the street to save him. He glanced over his shoulder to John. John would live. He must.


	8. Two Brothers & a Doctor

**Chapter 8: Two Brothers & the Doctor**

"Happy to see that our great nations taxpayer money hasn't gone to waste, Sherlock."

"Oh please, Mycroft. This country has been wasting money for decades."

"That's not the point."

"I know what your bloody point is."

"People will talk you know."

"Don't they always?" Sherlock's tone was that of complete exasperation.

"You know what I mean, Sherlock. It's bad enough you're still alive," Mycroft drawled out. "My God the press alone will be madness… But that won't be half as terrible as when they discover that you're seeing Dr. Watson…"

"Oh for God sakes, Mycroft." Sherlock snapped. "Would you please shut-up and leave already!"

"No, I don't think I will. Besides, I paid to be here if you recall."

"It's not my fault you hire morons."

"From what I understand you told Agent Bradbury you had been shot. Dying in fact."

"Yes, clearly I was dying after overpowering an assassin and pushing him off a roof."

"I know. I saw the van."

"Really?" Sherlock questioned incredulously. "You're angry about the van? Whose stupid idea was that anyway? Can you be any more obvious? No wonder our system is failing, our intelligence agency still uses white panel vans to spy on people!"

"If you should know, those vans have been very useful in the security and surveillance…"

"Shut-up!" John abruptly said from his hospital bed. He opened his eyes, a hard task considering the amount of drugs circling in his veins at the moment. John had been poisoned, beaten, and had almost died, yet the Holmes boys were still at each other's throats and doing it in his hospital room of all places! He couldn't believe it.

He saw the blurred images of Mycroft and Sherlock standing at the foot of his hospital bed. Both men stared at him, looking mildly surprised and impressed.

"Both of you…" John said groggily. "Just… stop… talking…"

Sherlock turned to Mycroft. "You heard him. Get out."

Mycroft looked primly at John. "Well Dr. Watson, I'm glad to see you are feeling better."

John said nothing, hearing the condensation in his tone. Mycroft could have cared less if he was crippled, dead, or buried in a ditch somewhere. All he cared about was his brother and who he associated himself with. John also assumed Mycroft disliked him now since he could no longer put the fear of God into him. Mycroft lost his ability to manipulate John to his calculated whims against Sherlock a long time ago.

"Very well. I can tell my presence here is no longer required." He stopped at the doorway to the hospital room. "Expect an ambulance bill in the mail, Sherlock."

"Whatever."

"See you at Christmas?"

"No."

"A card then perhaps?"

"Leave!"

Mycroft strolled out of the room. His steps confident. His stride sure. Sherlock slammed the door violently behind him the second Mycroft left.

Sherlock turned to John then, his voice urgent. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah." He said with a smirk. "Perfect, thanks. You?"

"Oh- don't play hero. Tell me the truth? Are you in pain? Can I get you something?"

John hummed, letting his head rest comfortably back into the white hospital pillows. "More of these fantastic drugs I think."

A soft smile pulled at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "I don't think so, dear Doctor. You've had quite enough drugs for the day."

A moment of silence fell between them. John let his eyes close as his head swam with useless thoughts and still seeing Sherlock's handsome yet tense face looking down at him. It was then he remembered the rooftop and the bits he heard Sherlock say.

He turned his head on the pillow and opened his eyes towards him. He still stood there, observing him like he would through the lens of a microscope.

"What happened on the rooftop?" he asked slowly.

Sherlock tensed. His back straightened as he clasped his hands behind him. "You don't remember?"

"Some…" John said. "Not everything… How did you find me?"

"His sniper scope."

"You saw it too?"

"Yes, I was arguing with Mycroft when I saw the shine of the reflection from the rooftop. Lucky enough, Bradbury was there to show me the last few minutes on his surveillance footage of _you_, running into the building to face the sniper—_alone_."

John heard the irritation beneath Sherlock's words. He couldn't blame him. John had been stupid. It didn't help that he had left the flat feeling dangerously reckless, then saw the gun scope, and wanted a fight. He wanted to hurt someone. He assumed it was an assassin after Sherlock. He assumed wrong though and drove headlong into a fight that he had been outmatched for.

"What were you thinking?" Sherlock asked in a harsh whisper. "You could've died!"

"I wasn't…" John replied weakly. "I wasn't thinking, Sherlock."

"Clearly."

John shifted uncomfortably, wanting to reach out and punch him…again. It was his fault he ran out of the flat in the first place!

"What else do you remember?" Sherlock asked. His dark eyes fixed closely on his face.

"Nothing, really. It's all still a bit fuzzy." He sighed. "I was hit on the head before you got there."

"Yes, I know." Sherlock's voice sounded hoarse. John eyed him suspiciously.

The tension in the room suddenly spiked. Everything yet nothing was being said all at once. John felt the awkwardness from Sherlock. He didn't speak. He was weak and tired. He barely remembered Sherlock even being on the roof.

"Why are you being so weird?" John asked, breaking the tension. And wishing that Sherlock's hesitant silence and staring would stop.

"I'm not being weird." He snapped defensively.

"Yes you are."

"No, I'm not."

John exhaled and sank deeper into his pillows. "You're being childish."

"So are you."

"If you don't tell me what's wrong—then I'm going back to sleep."

"All right!" Sherlock said. "Fine. Here's what's bothering me. _You_."

John looked up at him from his pillows and nearly laughed. Sherlock looked so distraught and frustrated. It was very- unlike him. And of course he was blaming it on John.

"Okay." John drawled out.

"I'm serious."

"Yeah, I can see that."

"No you don't understand, John. Not at all."

"Then explain it to me." He slowly sat up, taking a deep breath to clear his foggy brain. He needed to let Sherlock say whatever he had to get off his chest. It seemed important. Besides, John wanted answers on what had happened. He was sure that his memory would come back in due time, but he wanted to hear it from him.

Sherlock glanced at him hesitantly. John nodded, crossing his hands over his blanketed lap and giving him his full attention.

Sherlock stood at the foot of the bed, now looking alarmed.

"Well…?" John asked.

Sherlock took a defiant stance. "You ruined my coat."

"I—what?"

"You ruined my coat." He re-stated harshly. "It's covered in blood."

John pursed his lips, getting irritable.

"The only reason it's covered in your blood is because you're an idiot!" Sherlock burst out. Before John could protest, Sherlock continued in a breathless, near manic voice. "Do you know how I found you? Lying in a pool of blood and—and… I thought you were dead!"

All anger drained from him as John watched the raw emotion cut deep across Sherlock's face.

"I was afraid I was too late. And I could've been…" he seethed out. "What if you died on that rooftop, John? What then? You're foolhardy notions of still being a heroic solider would have died with you!"

"Oh come off it, Sherlock."

"NO!" Sherlock rounded to the side of the bed and leaned forward, eyes blazing with such extraordinary rage. "I will not! Do you know what it felt like to see you there? Dying?"

"No," John replied honestly and a bit in shock. Was Sherlock being… emotional? Utterly bewildered, he watched the amazing display of feelings from a man he thought might have actually been incapable after all.

Sherlock raked his hand through his hair, pulling on the ends. "I don't know what I would do without you. You've made me so co-dependent now. I can't be anywhere for long without you."

John sighed. Here we go, he thought. Blaming him for everything once again…

"I spent the past month in agony without you." Sherlock said unexpectedly.

"Wait…what?" John asked, startled.

"You heard me." Hissed Sherlock. "I didn't want to leave London, let alone Baker Street without you when I went headhunting. God sakes, I was miserable! Then I come back, deciding I should check up on you and find you in a drunken coma! Really? I could see you terribly missed me."

"Now wait just a minute…"

"Then…!" Sherlock continued on, obliviously to John's protests. "…After all the trouble I went through to get rid of Moriarty's assassin—you went chasing after one which was obviously a trap! God John, do you ever stop and use that tiny little brain of yours!?"

"Okay, that's quite enough, Sherlock…"

"And you treated me deplorably before you left the flat yesterday! Insinuating that I only used you for personal gratification and nothing else. Sure—we've had a bit of fun these past few nights, but if you think our friendship met nothing to me, than why bother letting me seduce you?"  
"You seduced me?"

"Of course I did. Don't you remember?"

"Well, the first time—if you recall, I had a bit to drink. The second time, well…" He paused. The sudden memory of Sherlock pinning him against the wall and ravishing him came hurtling back. John felt his cheeks flush and a current of sexual electricity coursed through his body. He cleared his throat. "Okay fine. Yes. You seduced me."

Sherlock nodded proudly though continued to steam ahead, his words rushing out, if possible, faster. "So if you think after everything—after everything I did to protect you from my mistakes with Moriarty that I was just going to leave you? I would never leave you, John."

A shocked silence stifled the room and John took a breath. Sherlock walked slowly to his bedside and gazed down at him. A clarity shown in those molten dark eyes.

"You could've told me," John whispered to him.

"If I would have stopped and told you my plans, I may never have gone through with them." Sherlock replied, his tone much softer… achingly gentle. John's heart swelled in a ridiculous warmth.

Sherlock leaned in closely and forced John to gaze directly into his eyes now. Hypnotized, John did as he commanded and felt a shiver of need race through his muscles.

"I was telling you the truth the other day when I said I did what I had to do to protect you. I did it not just because you are my friend, dear John. But because I love yo-…"

Before Sherlock ever got the words out, John grabbed the back of his neck and crushed a desperate kiss on his lips. Sherlock let out a low hum of approval and replied instantly, opening his mouth and taking his tongue into his. The kiss went from a scolding hot to a simmering boil as both men kissed one another with drugging slowness. Their breaths mingled. Their wet lips sucked and caressed. Their bodies warmed and tingled in a rush of desire.

"God, Sherlock…" John whispered breathlessly against his lips. "I love you too."

Sherlock smiled arrogantly and caught his lips once more, devastating them.

_**TBC**_

* * *

****okay kiddies- I'm getting greedy for comments! Plz let me know your thoughts squishy fangirl feelings! There is not much left to the story now- so thanks to all who have loyally followed my story & trust me, the next chapter is gonna be... rapturous. ^.- ****


	9. Harder John

**Chapter 9: Harder John**

John titled his head sideways. It took him a moment to realize what he was staring at. He titled his head to the other side, going for a different angle.

"Yup," He muttered out loud to himself. "That's an octopus."

He slammed the refrigerator door immediately, no longer hungry.

It was then he heard the soft footsteps behind him and saw Miss Hudson enter the kitchen of the flat. "Oh, John!" Miss Hudson said with a delighted smile. "So good to have you back, dear!"

"I was gone for a day." He replied inanely.

"Felt like longer, suppose. Mostly because Sherlock went a bit… uh…"

John raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Well," She continued slowly, her voice lowering. "He was in quite a state when he came home from the hospital."

John snorted. "Yes, well that's what happens when you argue with Nurse Bigfoot Roy."

She cringed. "I had a feeling it was something like that."

"Sherlock was under the impression that hospital visiting hours didn't apply to him. But unfortunately, my big and actually rather hairy nurse saw different."

She sighed. "I told him you would be back today sometime, but it didn't help any. He pulled out that terrible handgun and started shooting at my walls again! My goodness me." Her hand fluttered over her chest. "I managed to convince him to do something nice for you while he waited."

Something nice? His eyes widened in sudden horror. What on God's green earth would Sherlock think of as nice for him? A sense of doom hit him then as the image of the dead octopus inside the refrigerator popped back in his head. He stifled the urge to groan.

"Did you suggest something to him?" He asked tentatively, afraid he already knew the answer.

"Oh yes! I told him he should cook you dinner tonight. Told him that would cheer you up and you two can start over here. Fresh start, after everything that's happened lately. A lovely home cooked meal always does the trick."

There was no way he was eating that putrid looking octopus for dinner. Sherlock's definition of nice skewed way off from the norm and if he thought that this was somehow romantic—he was out of his mind! Besides that, John was afraid of octopuses. He had been ever since he was a kid. He could see it now, with its big head and gross, squishy tentacles swimming in the aquarium. Something about their sucking scales, their wrinkly old-man flesh, and big awkwardly shaped head, freaked him out.

"Did he happen to say what he might be cooking this evening?"

She smiled, "Yes! Well, not exactly. He just said it was in the fridge and he went out to get something nice for dessert."

John swallowed.

"What's wrong dear?"

"Uhm… nothing."

"Well if you need anything else for tonight, just give us a shout like you usually do, dear."

"Thanks, Miss Hudson."

The second he heard her retreating footsteps on the stairs, he yanked open the door to the fridge. The creature seemed to glare at him with those dead, accusing eyes, as though knowing what John planned to do. He stepped forward and reached for the plate that it sat on. No bloody way was he eating this. No, no, no… Shaking his head, he pulled it out and was instantly struck by the intense odor of dead fish. He gagged, beginning to feel queasy as he hurried toward the open window. The second the cold London breeze hit him, he thrust the octopus out the window and dropped it, platter and all. He heard the telling shatter of the plate and a squish of some sort far below.

He patted his hands on his trousers, feeling contaminated just by touching the plate. Still gagging, he turned and suddenly jumped. Sherlock stood in the doorway, eyes wide and mouth agape.

"You just dropped my octopus out the window."

"Yes, well apparently there was one in our fridge."

"Of all the things I've kept in that fridge, never once have you throw anything out. Even when I had the thumbs and head in there."

"We didn't plan on eating the thumbs or head…"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Who said we were eating the octopus?"

John opened his mouth to reply but hesitated and glanced back out the window. "Miss Hudson said you were going to cook me a nice dinner when I came home. So I assumed it was… well—that."

Sherlock arched a high eyebrow and dropped a bag of food on the chair in front of him, and let out a muffled snort. "Miss Hudson! Of course."

John heard the utter contempt in Sherlock's tone and let out his own sigh of relief. Thank God he found that thing before Sherlock decided to cook it, or else he'd be eating that tonight! He gagged at the mere thought.

Sherlock shrugged off his coat and tossed it on the couch. His hair was windswept from the travel on the busy London streets. His black slacks were elegant against his long, beautifully lean legs. John watched as he then unbuttoned his dark suit jacket and slid it off. His heart instantly began to race watching Sherlock undress before him. Though it was totally casual and John had seen Sherlock do this countless times, for some reason seeing him do it now, only brought the memories of their passionate love making come careening back.

It had only been two days since the last time they made love, but for him, in this moment- it felt like months. He cleared his throat, attempting to relieve the lustful tension building constricting around his cock. Sherlock tossed his jacket with his coat, standing before him with sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his suit shirt buttons opened at his neck.

John felt a shiver of urgent need race up his spine.

"I've never cooked before. I was going to experiment tonight."

"On an _octopus_?" John asked incredulously. "Sherlock, I think there are easier things to cook with than… that!"

"Really? Huh- I hadn't thought about it."

"Of course not." John hesitated, and then asked. "Why of all things, an octopus?"

Sherlock shrugged carelessly. "Why not?"

John shook his head and let out a sudden giggle. It was childish and irrational. Sherlock stared at him curiously. He attempted to muffle it with his hand but continued to laugh weakly.

"What's so funny?"

John glanced back out the window, wondering if this is what _normal_ would be with Sherlock from now on. Sherlock attempting to cook dinner for him and buying the worse thing possible. Or maybe John coming back to the flat and finding Sherlock waiting for him. Ready and willing to be taken to bed… The thought stirred another restless flare of desire inside of him. But instead, he focused on the moment.

"I guess I should tell you now, but I'm actually petrified of octopuses." John admitted with a soft smile.

"Really?" Sherlock asked intrigued. "I didn't think you—the man with nerves of steel, was afraid of anything."

"I blame it on my childhood spent running around the London aquarium."

"A childhood fear, interesting." He narrowed his eyes, giving him that inductive look. John arched an eyebrow at this.

"What?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said and glanced down to the bag on the chair. "I guess we'll have to make do with just dessert than."

"Oh yeah? What did you get?"

"Strawberries, chocolate and wine."

It was John's turn to narrow his eyes suspiciously as he searched Sherlock's handsome face. When he saw nothing revealing, he stepped forward slowly and walked to the bag and fingered through the items. Wine, chocolate, strawberries, and… condoms. _Boxes_ of condoms.

John resisted the urge to smile. Instead, keeping utterly calm and stern, he glanced questioningly up at Sherlock. "And condoms?"

Sherlock glanced away momentarily, appearing awkward for a brief second before recovering coolly. "Yes, I was running low."

"There are three boxes in there, Sherlock."

"Yes… I—uhm…"

John sharpened his gaze on him as he stepped forward boldly. "What exactly are you expecting out of this night?"

Sherlock's crystal blue eyes blazed irritably. "What do you think, John? Obviously I intended for us to have copious amounts of sex with you, okay?"

Suppressing the laughter bubbling up inside him was damn near impossible, but seeing Sherlock squirm like this was just too good.

Sherlock was still awkward and naive when it came to being in a relationship, especially a sexual one. He had a lot to learn and that fact, John was certain of, irritated the clever detective. He liked being in control. He liked knowing where he stood and where to take charge. Now Sherlock had to relinquish some of that control to a partner—him. And of course, John had to abuse this new found power, at least for a little while.

After all, Sherlock did confess he loved John to an assassin, before he ever told him! John was a bit annoyed by this fact and planned on making Sherlock Holmes pay for making him wait to know the truth.

John had regained his memory earlier this morning and by the time he left the hospital, he was fit to be tied. Sherlock might have admitted to loving him in the hospital. But it was on the rooftop, as he lay in his own blood, on the verge of dying, that Sherlock finally declared his love! John wanted to kill him. Why did everything have to be some long drawn out affair with this man? Couldn't he just tell him the truth before he took a crowbar to the head? No—clearly not. Now, it was time to pay. And oh did John have a lovely punishment in mind.

"The doctor told me to ease back into things, Sherlock." John said casually, turning away from him and pulling off his own jacket. "I don't think it's a good idea to…" he trailed off, back turned to Sherlock as he tossed his jacket on the couch and kicked off his shoes.

"What are you saying?" Sherlock asked demandingly.

John slowly pulled his dark navy sweater-vest over his head and discarded it easily, standing now only in his trousers and white t-shirt.

He unbuckled his belt, a small smile dancing at his lips as Sherlock asked in a hoarse voice. "Are you sure we can't…?"

The sudden tension spiked the air between them, but neither men moved to one another. John kept his back firmly to Sherlock, drawing out the torment and loving every second. He felt powerful, and in control. He rarely felt this way when it involved Sherlock. Normally he was the follower, the tag along, the one desperate to understand but always left guessing until the end. Like on the rooftop. Listening to every word Sherlock said and feeling the sting along with the elation. Sherlock loved him! But he also took his bloody time telling him. Time to make Sherlock feel the same sting he felt on that roof.

Feeling confident, John glanced over his shoulder and shrugged carelessly. "Sorry, Sherlock. But doctor's orders. I don't think I'll be… up, for any uh—vigorous activities tonight."

John watched Sherlock's face fall and his hopes become instantly dashed. Pleased with this result he turned back around and pulled his shirt over his head. "I think I'll head upstairs now. Take a nice, long, hot shower."

He bent over to retrieve his clothes on the couch when he felt a brush of an erection push against his backside. He straightened immediately and in doing so, felt Sherlock's arms fall about his waist and pull him closer into his bulging arousal. John nearly let out an audible gasp. He barely stifled it in time. He wasn't going to let his own control slip! No matter how easy it would be to give in to the tempting detective.

"I can take it slow..." Sherlock whispered huskily into the back of his neck, lips softly kissing his flesh. "I can be patient, I promise." John smirked. It sounded like Sherlock was trying to convince himself of this, not John.

He grabbed Sherlock's hand around his waist and pulled it up towards his chest, letting his palm graze over his stomach, his abdomen until finally caressing his nipple. He wanted Sherlock to feel what he could have lost if he never told him the truth. He wanted him to burn. "I want to, Sherlock. I do. I really do. But you know I can't."

Sherlock's hand squeezed his chest, thumbing his nipple viciously and pushing his cock harder against his backside. A hot coil of lust wrapped around his gut, twisting him into knots. John barely was able to form the words in his head as he spoke breathlessly. "Sherlock… you have to stop."

Sherlock buried his face into the crook of his neck, breathing heavily from the intensity of his arousal and the burning ache John was sure he felt by now.

"John, please." He hissed out. "I need you."

"No," John said more firmly.

He wanted to hear more than desire from those lips. Not passion, not crazed and urgent declarations of love. John needed a reason. He wanted to know more than anything else, why Sherlock wanted him. Loved him.

"Sherlock," John couldn't stop the ache in his voice. "Let me go."

Sherlock ignored this, his hands gripping into his flesh with an almost angry desire. "You have no idea what you _do_ to me." He whispered harshly. "Your very existence rips me up inside. I want you more than the next breath I take. I need you more than this rotten life. You're more important than all the cases I've ever solved." Sherlock drew him even closer. John went willingly, his heart already melting and caving in. God he needed to hear this. He wanted to hear the desperation in his voice. The longing. John felt it so keenly within himself for this man.

"Whatever I have is yours, John. I would die for you. And I will go to my grave loving you…"

"Okay, that's it." John abruptly spun in his arms and laid a hot, wild kiss on his lips.

Sherlock drew back, surprised. "I don't understand…"

John kissed him again, each movement a surge of passion. "I wanted you to suffer…" he breathed out through each scolding kiss. "Like I have—waiting for you, you bloody idiot."

Sherlock suddenly laughed, understanding sparkling in his eyes. "You were punishing me?"

"Yes."

Sherlock rotated his hips dangerously into him now, letting their erections rubbed hotly against each other. "Would you actually have gone upstairs and ignored me the rest of the evening?"

John smiled against his lips. "I would have taken one hellvua cold shower and then probably lay awake all night, calling myself a jackass."

Sherlock's beautiful blue eyes darkened, he slowly bent his head and captured John's lips. The kiss was slow. And achingly sweet. John's heart instantly began thundering in his chest. Sherlock had never kissed him like this before. He let his lips be guided by this man, as he slipped open his mouth for the tongue that followed. Excitement coiled in his belly as he tasted the passion on Sherlock's lips.

Unable to breathe from the hammering of his heart, he pulled back and sighed. Sherlock watched him carefully.

"Are you all right, love?"

John's heart fluttered at the sentiment but said nothing. He nodded. "I'm fine."

"We don't have to do anything tonight if you're not feeling well, John."

"No," he broke in. "No—it's fine. I can take a crowbar to the head any day."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "You better not."

"Well, if I hang out with you long enough, I'm bond to get into some trouble here and there."

"Not if I can help it." He replied fiercely.

John snorted. "Please, since when have you cared about the dangerous stuff? It's usually the most exciting part of the case for you."

Sherlock slowly moved John closer to him, until they were so close he could feel the heat coming off his body through his close. His gaze was dark and unsettling. "We'll be more cautious in the future. I can't risk losing you again."

John reached up and twirled his finger in the shaggy black hair with a warm smile. "Whatever you say, Sherlock."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

Sherlock glowered. "We'll never agree on this, will we? You're too stubborn and I'm…"

"Too you. Now shut-up and take me to bed you idiot."

"Whatever my good doctor commands." He said with a grin.

* * *

Eager to see John fully unclothed, Sherlock nearly tore his shirt off attempting to remove it. John laughed and helped take his shift off before tossing it to the floor. They were in Sherlock's room, this time both determined to make it to the bed.

He could see the startling intensity in Sherlock's handsome face as he began unsnapping John's trousers at the foot of the bed. He felt a cool hand, unable to wait for the complete shed of clothing, slide down his stomach and between his legs. John titled his head back, hips arching forward.

Sherlock breath came out fast, his focus unwavering from John's face, watching him. John slowly realized, through the hazy fog of desire, that Sherlock was still in control. And John wasn't going to have any of that tonight.

Boldly, he grabbed his hand from his cock and without warning John sidestepped and pushed Sherlock on top of the bed. He saw Sherlock's brilliant blue eyes brightened with excitement.

"Now Sherlock," John said as though scolding a child. "We're going to do this my way for a change."

He arched an eyebrow and gave John the most seductive look ever as he let his heated gaze slowly travel from his face, down his naked chest, to the opened clasp of his trousers where his cock was fully tented. Sherlock smirked. "Oh really…?"

His arrogance was outstanding, John thought, as he watched the devil lean back into the pillows, casually resting his arm beneath his head. All Sherlock had to do was lay there before him to be a glorious temptation. And God… he was beautiful. With his shirt unbuttoned barely revealing the naked skin beneath, his ankles crossed and his slacks bunched at his towering erection, which he displayed proudly.

"Well?" Sherlock asked huskily. "Are you going to stand there all night and make me wait? Or are you going to seduce me?"

John shook his head in disbelief. "Will you just give me this one time to be in charge? Or does everything have to be in your control?"

Sherlock's arrogance seemed to falter as a real vulnerability touched his face. "That's my problem, John. You—I could never control."

John took a deep breath, feeling his insides tremble. Without another word, he stepped out of his clothes and slowly crept onto the bed, the mattress soft beneath his hands and knees as he moved over Sherlock's body. He heard Sherlock's quick intake of breath. A hard need filtering through their veins as John slowly began to touch him.

He bent over his lips, about to kiss him, when he changed course and kissed his cheek instead. Sherlock grumbled irritably but didn't force him to his lips. John smiled, dipping his head lower and tasting the skin of his neck, sucking and kissing with ease.

Slipping his hand beneath Sherlock's open shirt, finally able to touch the seductive man, and yet feeling the shivers and flutter of his heartbeat beneath his palm. His pulse raced, knowing he could make Sherlock quiver with the same need.

Sliding downwards, he began kissing where his hands had been, causing Sherlock to arch his hips upwards and his body to stir restlessly. John felt his own body betray him as he instinctively thrust down into Sherlock, his naked erection pushing into him. Sherlock groaned. His hands then furiously began working at the clasp of his slacks, desperate to remove them.

"Wait…" John whispered and pushed his hands away from the clasp. He saw the ridge outline of his cock through his slacks and dipped his head, using his mouth, kissed his cock through the thin fabric. Sherlock twisted beneath him instantly as though a caged lion ready to claw his way out. John held his hips down and did it again, grazing his teeth over the ridged form.

"John," Sherlock moaned loudly. "You're going to kill me if you don't stop."

Smiling, he did it again, this time sliding his hands up his sides and roughly fondly him with his mouth.

Sherlock let out a low, tormented moan, his fingers gripping the pillow above him. John felt his own cock stir anxiously now. Listening to all his lovely, breathless groans was driving him mad. Deciding to speed things up, he finally unclasped Sherlock's slacks and pushed them off his hips, discarding them from the bed. His erection was thick and aching, ready to be satisfied. John edged closer to him and let his warm breath tease the flesh between his legs.

He felt Sherlock's leg muscles tense beneath his hands as he kissed him slowly on the outside of his erection. Sherlock's back arched upwards. John, feeling merciful, finally sank his mouth over his lover's cock. He heard the gasping approval from above him as he began to suck and tongue him. It was easier than he thought bringing Sherlock to his knees. He just had to draw out the foreplay until he was near bursting. John hummed in delight making Sherlock jerk uncontrollably.

John felt his own cock strain against him. If he kept this up, he'd go off just by listening to Sherlock get off. And he couldn't have that. No. He wanted to be inside him to the hilt. He wanted to thrust and fuck. He needed him. John, trembling from the brilliant fire filling him, pulled away from Sherlock, licking the precum off the tip and kissing his stomach. Sherlock was panting heavily, his eyes dark with the same crazed need.

John tore his gaze from the temptation that lay before him and reached the bedside table, yanking the drawer open and finding the last condom left inside. He sighed and quickly tried to slip it on while Sherlock tormented him as he stirred restlessly beneath him. John felt his hips arch against him, felt his hands run along his sides, gripping him as Sherlock's cock brushed demandingly into his own cock. It was John's turn to groan. Unable to stop himself, he thrust his hips forward and down. Sherlock gasped. Their cocks humped into one another. Both stiff and desperate.

He wasn't going to be able to slip on the condom going this. Without thinking, he pulled himself off from on top of Sherlock and landed on his back. He blindingly ripped open the package and was about to slip it on when he felt Sherlock move and grab him around the waist. Before John realized it, Sherlock's amazing lips were on his. They kissed and kissed and kissed.

John sighed, opening his mouth to the beautiful onslaught of passion. It was perfect. And damn inconvenient at the same time. He wanted to get the condom on. And he wanted to make love to him, but bloody Sherlock Holmes was sucking on his tongue and…

John let out a muffled cry as Sherlock gripped his cock fiercely. He nearly came.

"Sherlock!" John said through gritted teeth. His entire body had tensed up, preventing the orgasm that suddenly tingled at the tip of his throbbing erection. "Stop…" He breathed against his lips. The heat from their bodies and their desire pulsed between them. Sherlock's sharp gaze fell onto him, fogged with heat.

"If you do that…" John whispered. "I won't last."

Sherlock seemed to consider this for a second, his eyes darkening recklessly.

"Sherlock…" John chided warningly.

"Fine." He grunted irritably and slowly released him, but not before pulling on the tip of his erection.

John bucked wildly and let out a long breath. "Not nice."

Sherlock smiled mischievously and moved back to his position from earlier, his head on the pillow and his legs outstretched before him. John felt temptation slap him in the face. Sherlock was a handsome devil, one he would gladly worship the rest of his life, well at least in the bedroom. Quickly, he finally slipped on the condom and moved over to Sherlock, the top of his legs brushing his thighs.

His breathing nearly stopped when Sherlock pushed his bottom into his cock. He swallowed and positioned himself, letting Sherlock's lean legs wrap around his waist.

Their gaze locked and held. But before he did anything, John leaned down and kissed him. Sherlock opened his mouth for him, greeting him with the same slow, never-ending kiss. His heart melted. God how he loved this man. Their kiss was intoxicating. His lips were heavenly and before he realized it, his hips pushed forward and he entered him. Sherlock gasped against his lips, his body stiffening.

John stared into his beautiful blue eyes and felt transported. He touched the side of his cheek affectionately, staring into him, realizing how lucky he was for finding this man. For getting the chance to love and be loved by him.

John felt the muscles in his body tense as his cock was now fully immersed in Sherlock's body. Now it was truly perfect, John thought in wonderment as he slowly began to move.

Sherlock's eyes closed and his head titled back into the pillows, absolute ecstasy etched on his face. John, taking deep, calming breaths, continued the agonizingly slow pace. He felt the sweat on his brow, the muscles in his legs tense and his cock tingle anxiously. He wanted to pound. He wanted to thrust. But he kept it slow…

"Oh for God sakes, John!" Sherlock cried. "Harder!"

John nearly laughed at the desperation in his voice, instead he pulled out all the way, making Sherlock groan wantonly, before thrusting himself forward and reentering him to the hilt. The hard thrust nearly undid him. John gripped tightly to Sherlock, his need overpowering his thoughts, no longer wanting to torment his lover. No—he wanted to make him scream.

John arched his hips and thrust deeper. He did it again, this time burying himself completely. Sherlock bucked wildly beneath him, calling out his name. John picked up the pace and continued to move his hips, in and out. Over and over. Sherlock gasped. His body tensing with each thrust, and each slow deliberate pound into him. He practically arched off the bed and into his arms, as John quickened the pace until it was nothing but a flurry of groans and fast breathing.

"John…!" Sherlock called out, his body suddenly tensing. John felt his muscles constrict around his cock, which only made him pound harder. It was then he grabbed Sherlock's erection between their bodies and pumped him with a bruising grip. Sherlock came instantly. His warmth spilling into his hand and his body jerking upwards, giving John more access beneath him as his cock pushed even further. Unable to catch his breath, John arched backwards, his hands gripping Sherlock's legs as he pounded even faster, the sweet tension around his cock coming to a piercing high.

An incredible wave of an orgasm ripped through his entire body, driving him downwards one last time as he thrust viciously into the warmth of Sherlock before pulling out and toppling to the bed.

They lay separate from each other for a few minutes. Both trying to catch their breath. Finally, feeling completely drained of all sense and energy, John slowly rolled to his side and moved to where Sherlock was. The second his head hit the pillow besides him, he felt Sherlock pull him closer, their flushed bodies touching. John, with his eyes closed, felt soft lips touch his, before pulling away and tucking his head into his chest. John sighed contentedly, realizing that Sherlock had come willingly into his arms and wanted to have the after-sex-cuddle.

Smiling softly at this and not minding at all, he brushed his fingers through Sherlock's soft black hair.

"That was incredible, John." Sherlock said, his breath fanning his naked chest.

"Thanks. I tried my best."

"Please, try your best every night."

John chuckled. "I don't know about that. You nearly undid me there a couple times."

"Really? Fascinating."

"I wonder what you'll be like when you start to get the hang of this. You'll probably kill me."

A rumbling laughter came from Sherlock. "I have some ideas…"

"Already? Dear God, I'm a dead man."John teased lightly.

They fell into a comfortable silence, and not long after both men fell asleep, wrapped in each other's arms.

_**The End**_


End file.
